Mzee Jaki : An African Odyssey On Suzuki Vstrom 650

An End to a Beginning.

2014-09-15T06:07:00.001+01:00

How the End Begun

Although I have never finished my story, there is an end to every beginning. One such end came many moons ago, when a middle class Yankee well in his retirement fell in love with Scorpion 1. He wanted to travel through African and Europe.

But first, there are many kinds of truth. One of these for me is Scorpion's great friendship, mistress and companion. In the many glorious days we spent together, I had put about 45,000km on her. She was a work horse that had simply served her master beyond reproach. Before our relationship, I had shopped around, and eventually settled on a Wee Strom DL 650. That was many years ago. In those days, it was simply the best thing I had ever possessed. We had a relationship: it was time to let go. It was the most agonizing decision. I could not stop the tears. We all do when our relationships are threatened. Some cynics might cry out, but she was just a machine. True, this one is not in dispute, but what about the stories we wrote together during our relationship, the many hours we spent in each others' embrace in the middle of no where, the tumbles, the rain, the mud, the dust, the people we met, the many rivers we crossed, the the mountains and valleys we traversed, the very long straight roads that seemingly had no end, and the times we spent at the mechanics to fix her. Surely these little memories become part of one's psyche -- the story of a endless love between man and machine.

I told Tom, for that was Scorpion's new friend and owner, he could take possession of Scorpion on condition that he loved her. Thus settled Scorpion became the mistress of Tom. From the very beginning, Tom violently fell in love with Scorpion. When a man spends a fortune adorning his mistess, you know love has no bounds. She became the most kitted bike I had ever seen.

And for many years she lived in Germany, and every now and then, Tom would reunite with with her and ride around Europe. Tom's story is told in these pages: Tom Richardson's Adventure. Sadly Tom passed away Nov 2015 from Pulmonary Fibrosis. He had written to me about a week earlier saying that was his last email.

Tribute to Tom -- His Words

Ten years ago, I decided to ride motorcycles; I just turned 72 and got a diagnosis that suggests I'm not going to see many more birthdays. This may be my last adventure on a bike. I'm going to get on my Suzuki DL650 in Germany and head for Ukrania to see what's up for myself. Romania, Moldova, Bulgaria, maybe Turkey and Greece, then up the coast of the Balkans to Croatia for time on the beach before coming home to USA again. Up to now, I’ve lived a charmed life. Married well, enjoyed raising three children - now stretched to 7 (it’s complicated) with great spouses and grandchildren. I've traveled a lot - much on a motorcycle, benefited from a middle-class American income and the accident of my birth in a country whose better off citizens have a measure of freedom to think and act, and I’ve owned far too many toys. I enjoy discussions about politics, religion, economics, environmental issues, ...lots of things. I eat too much and in spite of it I'm still pretty healthy -- except for this latest thing, which seems to have no explanation - or cure. I'm enjoying the trip; wish it was less close to being over." He said "life is short", he lived it to the fullest.

Go well old boy!

Go well!

Scorpion with Tom in picture at the bottom of Africa - L'Agulhas in happier old good days. This year 2014, Tom wanted to ride around Eastern Europe: to Croatia all the way to Ukraine. But he was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. He had to abandon his trip at the beginning of May when a doctor voided his travel insurance in Germany and the rest of Europe. This wonderful youthful old Yankee said in his blog "Life is Short" and he was the kind of man to live it to the fullest.

Tom Richardson at L'Agulhas 2011

Tom is one of the most generous people. Almighty bless you Tom!. Tom give Scorpion to some Irish man in Ireland. May Scorpion bring you bliss. Beyond this, I prefer to remain in the dark. Sometime the good memories are preferred and cherish. It is better it remains that way. If I had my way, I would bring back Scorpion to South Africa. But alas such is life! Tom you be blessed!

Meanwhile, I have never embarked on any serious adventure since my last one. I hope one day, when I am still full of juice, I will do so. Even then I have put 90,000 km on Scorpion II. A large chunk of it doing Roadrangers Stuff. I ride with cyclists to keep them safe on our dangerous SA roads.

If I loved Scorpion I, I loved Scorpion II even more. You can see her below in her middle age. I'm grateful to all of you, 15, 963 odd souls who have peered into these pages. Even though I'm no celebrity, life has been good . Every one writes their own stories; this is my story and how I wish to tell about myself. I became part of your story and you yourselves became part of my story. One day I hope to tell you some more stories about my travels to yonder lands.

Scorpion II in her Middle Age

Epilogue

Technology changes and there are ever newer and better bikes on the market. I sought one such bike. This time one with lots of power and a shaft. The XT1200Z, Yamaha had just been released, April 2010. The dominant bike in this category was 1200 GSA. I rode these bikes for a while and determined that I was much happier on the Yamaha. I can tell you in retrospect that my gut feelings are seldom wrong.

So when Tom came along and rode away on my Scorpion I, I knew I had to carry on my dream of travelling to yonder lands. Soon I was the owner of my first Yamaha. Make no mistake, I reluctantly, very reluctant to let go of Scorpion I. It was a decision based on hard economics even though I would have loved to keep her, and the wisdom that a seed must die to give life. I have many nostalgic moments when I get lost in reveries of the ol good days with Scorpion. And sometimes, when I think of her, knot forms in my guts. I suffer from something I have learnt is called overwhelming symptoempylaisis nostalgia. But again these pains are lessened by my new love.

As it were everything has a beginning and an end. Tom as it were succumbed to pulmonary fibriosis on the 5th of November 2015. He rides on in yonder land. His body might have given in to the laws of nature, but his spirit rides on. Go well my ol friend.

Dar es Salaam the Good, the Bad, the Ugly

2012-06-14T15:13:00.001+01:00

I rolled into Dar es Salaam late mid-afternoon after an absence of six years. It was crowded with people and vehicles, obviously showing signs of growth as all cities do. Reminiscing the good old days in Dar es Salaam filled me with a pleasureable feeling. It was a metropolitan of many fine memories that I knew quite well, and had come to love. My favourite weekend places were on the beaches outside the hustle and bustle of city life. So I was coming to a familiar city and familiar people. I sojourned with the Setebe family.

Traffic in Dar es Salaam

One fine bright and sunny day, two days after I had settled in with my hosts, I went sight-seeing into the city. One thing that immediately struck me was the stacks and stacks of Coca-Cola crates just round the corner. In South Africa, it is one of the most affordable drink loved by many. I personally have not had a drop in thirty-five years of my few years of life. That is one drink, a friend once remarked, you will find on the moon. I chuckle because I remember the commedy: The God’s must be Crazy in which a Bushman travels to the end of the earth to get rid of a Coca-Cola bottle that was thought to bring misfortune and conflict.

Coca-Cola

The traffic was diverse and thick. Once could tell that the living standards of the citizens of Dar es Salaam had improved by the number of cars on the street as well as other developments. On the subject of transportation, it was interesting to observe that a new mode of transportation that had hitherto not existed in Dar ― Indian Bajaj ― was abound and highly sought after. Someone with business acumen has seen an opportunity for investment and taken full advantage of it.

Indian Bajaj

I came round a corner, and there was a vendor with a heap of pineapple right behind him. These tropical fruits that can grow to the size of a toddler are a common delicacy. Let me pre-empt you by saying that all along my return trip to South Africa, pineapples formed an important aspect of my meals.

Pineapple Vendor

I continued on my sight-seeing journey into the city, and at Mlimani city on Sam Nujoma Road was a Shoprite retail chain. The first one was opened in 2001 and this was a second one. I went window shopping to compare prices. Needless to say they offered a variety of goods and made shopping easy. As for the prices that is for the shoppers to tell.

Mlimani City

Thank you to Ma Tuliza, Enroute to Dar es Salaam

2012-05-10T14:16:00.001+01:00

In Arusha, the area beyond Njiro Korona is dry and dusty especially during the dry season. It looks wasted because the land was once cleared to provide for sisal plantations. The prominent geographical feature of the landscape is Mount Meru, a product of a violent volcanic eruption in the past that also tore deep gorges in the terrain. This unique beautiful landscape is where I spent four days with Ma Tuliza’s family at Njiro Korona. On the 10^th of January, with hugs and tears, I bid them farewell and headed for Dar es Salaam, a journey of approximately 651km.

Farewell to Ma Tuliza

Arusha-Moshi Highway is congested with traffic during the morning hours. So I took it easy. As I quickly covered the distance to Moshi, I had hoped to see Mount Kilimanjaro imposing majesty; unfortunately, it was cloudy so that the horizon was one dreary seamless skyline. I stopped at Moshi to refuel and to lubricate the chain which by now had developed a ‘clinging’ sound. I paid attention to the chain to ascertain that it could still deliver me to Johannesburg without the need for a replacement. It is necessary to mention that it is then I came to dislike chains on a long touring bike. Firstly, wear out so that they must be replaced together with both sprockets. There was also the inconvenience of having to lubricate the chain every 400 or so kilometres. I was firmly convinced that my next touring bike would be shaft driven.

Mt. Meru

Although it was still mid-morning, the sun was blazing angrily on me. But as long as I was riding the breeze cooled me. I had replenished my water at Moshi. It was my custom that as long as I was riding, a Carmel two litre hydration pack rode on my back with the mouth piece firmly wedged between my teeth. I drank up to four litres or more a day to which I always added some glucose, lemon or Sprite. For this reason, I never had a headache for the entire duration of the odyssey. Therefore, I cannot overemphasise the benefits of drinking a lot of water, which is easily available as bottled or borehole water.

Mt Kilimanjaro in the Background

The journey from Moshi to Mombo was uneventful. I covered miles and miles of asphalt with nothing particularly interesting on the horizon except the beautiful Usambara Mountain Ranges riding on my left. Today’s ride was a hard ride. I did not stop for my usual rests. Instead I rode standing or sitting until Mombo where I stopped for lunch. Lunch was a plate of Pilau (sweet tasting rice cooked with meat). I meet some South Africans who were touring this part of the world. Within 30 minutes I resumed trip toward Dar es Salaam.

Soon I reached the junction to Tanga; it was drizzling. But rain never bothers me. I would not stop unless it was windy or it was thunder storm. But riding in rain was not a very good idea so I throttled down. I was still mourning my rainsuit which fell off the bike on my way to Uvinza. In spite of the rain, my Kilimanjaro TPG touring suit (rather a curious name) was adequate. It kept me dry as a bone because of the membrane underneath, but importantly it would dry within 20 minutes after the rain stopped falling. So I continued to enjoy the scenery and rode on until Chalinze where I arrived to find a long distance bus was burnning. I was feeling very tired; I did not stop to ask what happened. So I rode on dreading the remaining 90km ride to Dar es Salaam. It is never a good idea to ride whilst you are tired. But this distance was managable. I turned all my attention to the task of taking myself safely to Dar es Salaam.

A Rest On the Highway of Arusha to Dar es Salaam

I do not remember much except that I stopped over at Ubungo in Dar es Salaam at Mr. Assenga’s home. He was the father of my ex-girl friend. It has been two years since we saw each other. He was someone I had great respect for; hence, this was a courtesy call. Inevitably, there was plenty to talk about, but as you might guess, it was all about the odyssey. In conclusion, we spent some time drinking coke. Sadly, Mr. Assenga passed on two years ago. May his soul rest in peace!

Later, I rode to Ma Setebe’s place where I was to spend the next four days.

Memories of Arusha

2012-05-03T12:40:00.004+01:00

Arusha city is roughly a 100km from Namanga border post. It is the capital city of this region of Tanzania and is populated mostly by Wa-Meru and the Masai nomads. Seen from the west, Mount Meru which forms the crest of the city sits behind the city with outward flanks that stretch as if they were embracing the city. From a geopolitical stance, Arusha is a tourist and a diplomatic hub, as well as the de facto capital of the East African Community.

Well, I had driven down the Nairobi-Arusha road myriad of times from 1995 when I first moved to live in Arusha. The stretch that particularly fascinated me was the Namanga-Arusha road. It is mostly a barren road with vast open plains adorned with stunning round hills that are green during the rainy season and turn light brown during the dry season. Furthermore it is also decked by occasional acacia trees and the appearance of a zebra or some other game in the distance.

Travelling down this road always reminded me of the sublime beauty of the savannah plains that is unique to the African continent. It is a home that I embrace ceaselessly. Riding through it was a great way of exploring this vast expanse. It is no wonder that David Livingstone found it irresistible; in the final analysis he died in Africa.

The Savannah

As I rode towards this magnificent city in its own right, I settled in my reveries as I was accustomed to do on this odyssey. I recalled an incident a couple of years ago, I was travelling on a Scandinavia Bus en route to Dar es Salaam when it run into a bull giraffe. It was the most frightening experience of my life: The noise of the impact, the shattering glass flying all over the place, the noise of the passengers screaming in all manner of languages and descriptions, the bus veering off the road, and the reek of the giraffe flesh. It was simply horrendous to say the least. When the bus finally came to a stop because of the dexterity and calm response of the driver, I was shaking like a leaf in the winds, but glad to be alive. It seems to me that the giraffe was foraging on the acacia trees beside the road when it was startled, unfortunately it turned into the road and the bus ran into its neck and the head killing it on impact. This entire event traumatised the passengers. And in addition, our trip was delayed by about six hours since the matter had to be reported to the police. I overheard someone say this was because the giraffe is the Tanzanian national symbol. Well, in this manner I rode into Arusha. It had been a gentle ride that I enjoyed thoroughly.

Tumaini Host

I spent four days at Njiro Arusha with a family I had known in the past. I also meet old friends and rode around the city on a couple of occasions. The place felt strange: anyway I had been away since 2004; it was enough reason to make it feel strange. I also took notice of two things: it was without a doubt that there was more traffic on the road and that the food prices were exorbitant. What was most rewarding was the time I spent resting and preparing for the long trip back to South Africa. I must say in conclusion that Arusha is one of those places I happen to like because of its curiousness.

Memories of Arusha

2012-04-23T10:25:00.002+01:00

I had covered the distance between Bungoma and Nairobi (350km) in about 5 hours. I went to Hekima College where I met my host Fr. Leander Kabutta, SJ. He was missioned as a financial administrator of the retirement home for old and infirmed Jesuits situated in a Suburb of Nairobi. Fr. Kabutta and I were friends at a college of Philosophy in Zimbabwe, but we had known each other way back in 1995, so I was in good hands. I met many old Jesuits I knew who were now retired. Leander and I spent many hours reminiscing the old good days late into the night. This late hour did not bother me since my itinerary for the day was as far as Arusha, a distance of 269.6 km only.

Signpost designating Namanga border post ahead

The next day, which was the 4th of January, I departed soon after I had something to eat. As it were, Nairobi is a huge metropolitan and a visitor can find rather overpowering. In spite of this, I snaked my way through the early morning traffic to Mombasa Road (A109). Thanks to my Garmin Zumo ― one of the greatest inventions of the 21st Century. Just before reaching Athi River, I turned into a Total petrol station to buy fuel as well as to ask for some grease for the chain. The chain lube had run out and so the chain was very dry. I thought I would scrap some grease from the lubrication garage but the attendant firmly refused. He said I had to pay for it. I was exasperated. I thought this was rather mean. This little incident reinforced my beliefs of people in this part of the world, namely that capitalism was powerfully entrenched in their psyche to the extent that hospitality and generosity were alien to these people. Indeed there was a popular joke that said: if you wanted to know if a Kenyan was actually dead, jingle a coin. If he turned around and said ‘that is my money’, you knew for certain that he was not dead. But this aside, this episode was a blessing in disguise. It turns out that I bought 0.5kg of lubricating grease, which was essential for lubbing the chain for the remainder of the journey.

I departed, turned into Road A104 towards Namanga. When I arrived at the border, this is about 10:30 am, I cleared Kenyan immigration and then went to clear the bike at customs. It turns out that a Kenyan policeman became an annoying spectacle. He was insisting that I pay third party insurance. I could not understand why a Kenyan policeman was insisting that I buy third party insurance for the Tanzanian side especially given that I was leaving the Kenyan territory. My travelling experience had ensured that I had developed a bag of measures for dealing with border-post-crossing. On this occasion, I determined that pure cold logic was the way to deal with this rogue policeman. So I began by establishing the facts:
“Sir, are you a policeman? I asked.
He looked at me suspiciously as if to say don’t you have eye before he replied, “yes”.
“A Kenyan policeman?” I pressed on.
“Yes.” He was visibly uncomfortable.
I went for the jugular, “Sir with due respect, how come that you are now an insurance broker for the Tanzanian government. Yet by your own admission you are an officer working for the government of Kenya?”
“Oh no, I was only trying to help,” he quickly responded.
“In that case, you have already been most helpful. I will be pleased if you let me pursue this matter at my own pace,” I said with finality in my voice.

I could see he was rattled and thoroughly disliked me. In my view, he definitely was out to make a quick buck from an unsuspecting traveller. I wondered how many he had robbed in this manner. But when you are a seasoned traveller like me, you become accustomed to meeting all manner of characters at any border post, some of whom collude with custom and immigration officials in making a quick buck. Well, finally I was on the Tanzania side, where I was welcomed like a long lost cousin. I filled in all the papers required to clear customs, as well as immigration and was soon on my way to Arusha.

Mt Meru in Arush

I rode without stopping to Arusha. I liked this city. I had lived here from 1995-1997. This meant I had friends. At the home of one of them, I arrived and sojourned for three days.

My hosts in Arusha

Enroute to Nairobi

2012-04-20T09:01:00.000+01:00

It is seven O’clock in the morning; the air is crisp and moist in Bungoma. It had rained during the night, and having fallen into a deep slumber, I had known nothing of it. What an unholy way to sleep! It had surprised me that if someone had stolen Scorpion, I would have woken up to a grave crisis. And moreover, the unimaginable might have happened. Needless to say, I was so tired that when I hit the sack, I had simply passed out. But, the good news was that I was so refreshed and in a great spirits, which was good for riding. I had a long day ahead of me.

Ready to Go

Scorpion was laden, refuelled and ready to go. I decided as it had become my custom to find Simone who was the night duty attendant at the petrol station to bid him farewell. We exchanged email addresses. I also begged him to accept a token of appreciation from me, which he did reluctantly. He said he would keep me in prayers. With the last farewells, I departed.

This was going to be a hard ride, but I gently eased myself into it. This route towards Nairobi forms part of the great North Road; it is a very busy road. It has also another reputation, vehicle carnage. It was the more reason that I rode with all my guards on. My preference would have been to ride through to Arusha (Tanzania), but that was easier said than done. I decided to take a mile at a time.

The Virgin Bride On the Day I Collected Her

As I rode, I thought about Scorpion. She was a good bike with a solid bulletproof 650 cc motor. She had come more than 5500kms, she had tumbled over 15 times, but apart from a shattered wind screen, and a broken handguard, she was rock solid and still going strong. I couldn’t but love her. The more I rode her, the more I fell in love with her. In areas of sand and mud she was deemed heavy, but in on a paved road, she cruised effortlessly. In South Africa, if you rode a BMW, a KTM or a Ducati, you had “the” bike. If you rode the DL 650, no one gave you as much as a glance. In other words, the DL was an underrated bike. I had spent a year researching on a suitable bike to undertake this adventure. I had read and reread all kinds of reviews on the DL. The facts spoke for themselves. The DL 650 was undoubtedly the most suitable bike. Even the yellow colour was a matter that was weighed carefully. My reasoning was that it was more visible and it was chosen specifically for reasons of conspicuity. With these thoughts, I covered many miles.

Meanwhile, I stopped once to stretch and again at Nakuru for Lunch and to replenish my water stock. As I rode on toward Nairobi, I mused over the first time I had come to this city in 1981 to visit my uncle. In those days, Nairobi was the most sophisticated metropolitan city in East Africa: A city of culture: fashion and music; business, very tall modern shinning buildings, the best paved roads. The entire city exuded glamour and refinement. Coming from rural Uganda, all these things were breath taking and a source of great wonderment. For a naive youngster like me, it came as a shock when I greeted a man standing on a Nairobi street who responded aggressively by asking me: “why are you greeting me; are you a thief?” This profoundly perturbed me and offended my cultural sensibility. Where I come from, my people will greet you even if they don’t know you; more so youngsters are expected to greet those who are older. What wrong had I done! Even though I was a kid I also had my pride. I still shake my head at the thought of this event and feel the chill run down my spine. Every time I have thought of this experience in my adult life, I have attributed it to the proliferation of individualism in its most corrupt and extreme form. It is a cancer that is eroding “Ubuntu”. It is has been reduced to a shell or a mere theoretical construct. An instrument used to control the African mind.

First Stop Enroute to Nairobi

Well, I reached Nairobi around 2pm. My deepest desire was to continue to Namanga and into Tanzania, but I decided to catch up with my Jesuit friend, Fr. Josephat Kabutta who was my host for the remainder of the day.

Family Reunion

2012-04-17T15:19:00.001+01:00

A family reunion is always an exciting affair as the comedy Madea’s Family Reunion has shown. In our case, among other things, it was even more thrilling since a member of the family had arrived on a massive dual purpose bike never seen in this part of the world. For most of my village folks who have never travel more than 100kms away from home in their lifetime, it was hard to work out that I had travelled 5500kms from South Africa on a bike. This state of affair was understandable given that none one was willing to believe that a bike was capable of travelling such great distances. This belief was compounded by the Indian made Bajajs they ride, which is not only air cooled, but is of such low power that it was obvious a trip on a bike was not possible. This said the commonest mode of transport is the bicycle; it is a way of life.

Bicycles used for Common Transport In Africa

To return to the main story of family reunion, it was the first time we had gathered as a clan. Naturally my arrival had created a buzz and drawn members of the family from far and wide. Well, it has always done so. I have been living out of the country for the last fifteen years, so my return home has always generated excitement not only within the family circles but also among the neighbours, I believe also because I am the only clan member who lives abroad on a permanent basis. So returning to my rural home is quite an event.

My rural village has neither electricity nor running water as well as most of the modern amenities. Yet it is home in the most intimate way. Coming from the hustle and bustle of metropolitan Johannesburg, Abwanget ― for this is the name of my village ― is heaven. The serenity I find in this remote, quiet wooded land is of its kind. Such is the peace that you rarely hear the roar of a car engine. My folks genuinely love. They will roast their last chicken for you, if you are their visitor. It is another world where humanity in its total description is without pretence. It is in this ambience that Christmas descended on us. We remained in this festive stupor well after the New Year, during which many family businesses took place: meetings, importantly baptisms of three members of the family at Toroma Catholic Church. Much of the time however was spent on delights of feasting: drinking “ajono” our local brew, braaing and dancing to the local tunes. In this way the days passed quickly.

Toroma Catholic Church Where the Baptism Took Place

One day, after the last family photo, many hugs, farewells and tears, I set off on a return journey to Johannesburg on the 2nd of January at eleven o’clock. I had two weeks of rest. Indeed, my mind, body and soul were adjusted to tackle the long ride to Johannesburg.

It was a clear hot day with an azure sky. Fred, my brother, and his wife accompanied me for the first leg of the trip to Soroti where I refuelled, lubricated my chain and headed for the Kenyan border about 160kms South East. I rode decidedly hard wanting to cover as much rode as I could. At Malaba, the boarder, it was raining hard. There was a bit of delay crossing the Ugandan boarder because there was only one custom officer to clear my bike who was busy. Cleared, I rolled through the no-man’s land into Kenya. I immediately faced two problems in Kenya: I had to pay for third party insurance of about 35$; I had to persuade the custom officials that I was in transit and did not require a carnet du passage. I can assure you based on the experiences of riders around the world; it pays to be able to speak the language of the host country. After much haggling with the custom officials they let me go, but only after paying for the third party insurance.

Just Me

I wish to recall that when I lived in Dar es Salaam some year back, I distinctly disliking to sojourn in Kenya. When travelling from Dar es Salaam, I always ensured I spent the night at Arusha, the following day I would drive through Kenya to Uganda. So, as I rode towards Bungoma the sun was setting on the Western horizon, I wished there was some more day light left so that I could ride further than Bungoma. I felt uneasy especially since this road was used by transport hauliers and long distance buses; I rode with much caution.

I arrived at Bungoma and went to look for a place to pitch my tent. The first place I asked was some sort of inland resort, they were hostile to the idea of pitching a tent. So I went back to the main road to Nairobi and drove some distance towards Kakamega where I found a Total petrol station. They allowed me to pitch my tent. After some food and a bottle of beer, I passed out thinking that the following day was going to be an exciting day and thanking my dear Lord for an eventless day.

Into The Pearl of Africa

2010-04-20T13:06:00.004+01:00

It was relieving to have reached halfway the journey. I would take as much rest as possible but also tour Uganda. It’s a beautiful country. Being on the equator it has diverse flora and fauna from equatorial forests to arid desert like conditions of the north east. Winston Churchill visiting the country (1908) called it the ‘pearl of Africa'. Lake Victoria, the second largest fresh water body in the world is a beautiful spectacle to behold. The Rwenzori mountain is one of the very few on the continent that has snow on its peak, the River Nile the second longest in the world passes through its territory. Uganda has diverse cultures, diverse food varieties and has some of the most hospitable people on planet; it is simply a place one must visit in one’s life time. Here I was enjoying all it beauty.

Red Mark Showing Loose Bolts and Nuts

I was exhausted from the many days of riding. It had taken ten days and about 5100kms of tough riding. All I wanted was ample rest. Indeed the days that followed, I spent long hours lazying away in bed, occasionally babysitting little Gabbie, Fred’s newest member of the family.

Giving Scorpion a Thorough Check

Following five days of rest, it was time to give Scorpion some real attention. To begin with I tightened all bolts and nuts on the chassis. I was surprised how many were loose. The worst of them were two bolts and nuts holding the headlamps. These had fallen off soon after I left Zambia somewhere in the southern part of Tanzania. I heard noise but only saw the magnitude of the problem today. I had the right mirror welded and fitted back as well as had my panniers panel beaten. Scorpion was also due for service. Gave her an oil and oil filter change, as well as cleaned the air filter. It was the first time I was doing this change and was ably assisted by Fred my sibling.

Showing Mileage Covered

Christmas was just around the corner. So I spent some time travelling around the country. I went to Arua which in the North West of Uganda, it was during this trip that I sneaked into the DRC.

Friends from High School Days: Twins

Manufacturing Peanut butter the Traditional Way

Market Day

Market Day: the Turkey Vendor

Market Day: the Chicken Vendor

Market Day: Vendor Transporting Chicken

Foreground: A garden of Cassava

Farewell To Rwanda

2010-04-04T09:44:00.002+01:00

The countryside of Rwanda

Sunday was overcast and a gloomy day; it turned out to be utterly uneventful. I stayed in bed for a while, but later spent the morning washing my Firstgear riding gear to rid it of dirt, mug and odious odour. There was a problem though —water was a very scarce commodity in Kigali. It disconcerted me that the Great Lake Region, rich in water bodies and lying at the equator was plagued by incessant water problems: scarcity and pollution. In Kigali all of it had to be bought for my washing. By contrast, Johannesburg has no lakes, its water is imported from as far as Lesotho, yet in the seven years I have lived in Jozi, never have I experienced any water problems. The water is clean to the extent that we drink it from the taps; it never requires any boiling, filtering or treating. So one wonders what makes the Lake Region different. Why can’t the responsible authorities do the same? The quandary as I have always argued is management and all the attendant troubles. Problems of services delivery are associated invariably with management. Bad leaders don’t deliver.

Tea Estates of Rwanda

Another matter occupied my mind. It was time to resume the odyssey — to Uganda. Territorially speaking, I was about to hit the halfway mark of the odyssey. My feelings about the sojourn in Rwanda were mixed. I had definitely enjoyed being in the country. It was a wonderful beautiful country made of wonderful people who had out of sheer will and desire survived and outlived the Genocide. It was something to talk about — indeed a remarkable feat. We had all witnessed the tenacity of the human capacity to beat all odds in order to keep the species and the nation going. It was a place, I convinced myself, I would visit in the future. Yet in spite of these pleasurable sentiments I was troubled at heart. I was troubled because I had come to visit Esperance all the way from Johannesburg. But she had shown little appreciation. When a visitor especially one coming from so far away arrives, don’t you play the host? Don’t you at least smile? Or must it be in the spirit of the old adage: “call a spade a spade” and give the supposedly offending visitor a cold shoulder? I was cold shouldered. I still I have no answer. Since I did not know Esperance as a person, I let the matter be. Still I remained disturbed. I could not shake off the feeling. I argued with myself: how could she be so cold and aloof. What about African hospitality? It is not a universal virtue.

The Countryside of Rwanda-1

In this mood I left Rwanda: the country and people I had so much come to identify with. The evening was long and boring. My imagination refused to come to my aid. I had one thing on my mind: to leave first thing in the morning.

Fortunately, I slept sound and deep except for an occasional infuriating buzz from a mosquito. I have learnt in the course of growing up that when I have a problem, I may agonise, rationalise, and in extreme cases loose my appetite; but sleep is one thing I never surrender. Problems go away with time, so why not retain my sanity so that when the problem is gone, I am still the healthy jovial person I am.

At the first light of the day I was ready to depart, but I needed some cash to take care of sundries. At 7:00 o’clock Muhire and I rolled into the city centre, exchanged dollars for Rwandese Francs and set off towards the border. My host accompanied me for 70kms. We hugged and bid farewell to each other. I departed heading north. Muhire was such a decent man. I wished the sister too was decent.

Inside Uganda

Today my intention was to ride hard. I assumed that I would be in Kampala by lunch time (13:00 hours), I was so wrong because I arrived only at 18:00 hours. In slightly more than an hour I was at Katuna border post. It was a smooth ride in a beautiful country side surrounded by high hills covered in lush green forests, tea fields, among others. The road was in a good state although busy since it was part of the Great North Road. The border had many hauliers going both directions; but in ten minutes I was on my way again. The immigration officials and the police officers were very polite and friendly. I rolled into Uganda in style. Obviously coming on a huge bike was not a common sight, and for another reason; I was a son of the land returning home. As it were, in this part of the world, the most common bikes are 50-125 cc. The big bikes are usually police bikes in the VIP motorcades.

On the Ugandan side, I had to clear customs before proceeding to immigration. The officer was extremely kind and I thought very sensible. He checked my papers; I paid about 20$ for tax. The colleague of the custom officer helping me tried to solicit a bribe out of me by persuading his colleague to make entry difficult for me. I overheard them arguing. The man helping me said that he was not going to compromise his morals. It was extremely gratifying to learn that there are people who have ideals and values that they hold. It is common knowledge according to the World Audit (2009); Uganda is the 74th most corrupt country in the world. So I was not surprised by this attempt to profiteer from me.

The Famous Ankole Cattle

I left the border determined to enjoy the ride. The roads were not as good as those I had left behind. They were very bumpy because of the bad patch work. They were also very narrow. I could not understand how Rwanda had better roads compared to Uganda for obvious reasons. There were very long stretches of bad sections and sometimes untarred parts. I can say with much confidence that of all the roads I drove on, Uganda had the worst road system. In spite of this, I was enjoying the scenery of rolling hills shrubbed in lush green. I rode though Kabale and Rukungiri. Towards Mbarara the landscape turned arid and uninteresting. Of all the riding I had done and was to do, this stretch was the most boring, laboured and left me feeling vulnerable. I stopped only to refuel and to eat. I took no photographs, and was especially angry that I had failed to photograph a man daggling the biggest and most magnificent catfish and tilapia I had ever seen. It was a lost opportunity. In this mood I rolled into Kampala. Fred my brother took me home where I slept for the next four days.

My Love for Kigali

2010-03-23T06:44:00.002+00:00

City Centre in the background and Kigali Memorial

I woke up feeling thankful. I had come some 4500kms. I was in good health and Scorpion was still running efficiently. As I lay on my host’s bed I planned the day; it was a Saturday. First, Scorpion was my chief concern; she needed of some attention. She was caked in mud; a thorough wash was on the menu. I also wanted to see Kigali, familiarise myself with political developments and find some entertainment.

Rwanda is no Libya in population. Though it is a small country, it has a population of over 10 million people, one of the highest densities in sub-Saharan African — 240 people per sq km. This was manifest as soon as I crossed the border: on the streets as well as the residential places were hives of people. Yet, I still thought Burundi held the crown — I had never seen as many people as I saw on the streets of Burundi.

Meanwhile, breakfast was simple: bread and tea. I would have preferred a plateful of boiled rice, cassava or potatoes for that is what I grew up eating. Whereas bread was European and tea was Chinese, these were in my view the ultimate colonial legacies. My conundrum was the mentality around these legacies. A case for argument: in my high school days to eat bread and drink coffee or tea was equated to being ‘civilized’. We all know this to be a warped mentality. By the same token, to speak English with a foreign accent was likened to being uncivilized. What was forgotten was that one comes from a cultural background, which unavoidably influences one’s ways of being. Speaking of ‘being’, one culture, plainly put, cannot be superior to another; it is simply different. If such a thing as a superior culture exists, it is merely a belief. We know beliefs are sacrosanct.

Housing Estate in Kigali

In the years I was a principal of a secondary school in Tanzania, it always amused me that my students, who had never been any where near America, spoke English with an American accent or shall we say spoke American English. Why was this so? What was wrong with speaking English with a Tanzanian enunciation? The Indians do it. The Russians speak English in Russian, and so do the Afrikaaners. Even Microsoft Corporation has come to accept the imperative of cultural differences, so that under language entries in its software are the following: English (UK), English (Zimbabwe) English (American), English (Jamaican), English (South African) because it is alright to be different. So what was wrong with being Tanzanian? I saw the need to deconstruct this mentality. One day I asked some students a question I supposed they still ponder to this day: “Have you ever heard an American speak in English or in Kiswahili with a Tanzanian pronunciation? I leave the rest to your fertile imagination.

Don’t get me wrong—I have nothing personal against my cousins overseas; yet, it is necessary that folks start appreciating themselves culturally. It is simply not acceptable that the more you sound like the queen, the better person you are. What defines a person is character, integrity, humanity and the like. In my view the lack of these are the sources of our human nuisances.

It seems I had wondered off in a mental reverie. Well, soon afterwards, Muhire and I set-off towards the city centre. It was a beautiful cool morning following the night down pour; the warmth of the sun was very delightful.

We soon arrived at car wash. What was unique about it was not the absence of high tech. Recall I was coming from Johannesburg, but rather the presence of basic old common sense. In bid to find employment for its youth, the Rwandese government had organised all street kid into some sort of associations. Car washing was one of them and motorcycle taxis (locally called boda boda) was another. In this manner, the Rwandese went far in solving crime and employment using common sense. In my view it was working, a leaf the city of Johannesburg could lend itself to solve some of its perennial problems.

For a fee of 1500 Rwandese francs, these youth scrubbed the mud off Scorpion. The mud was everywhere to the extent that to this day I have not been able to get rid of it completely. After two hours of waiting, Scorpion was sparkling and had regained some of her former glory. Then Muhire decided that we were ready to go site seeing.

Life Went On — A wedding.

Kigali is built on several rolling hills. This however was not what impressed me. It was the fast pace of development, unmistakable in the construction taking place in the district of the city. A prominent sight is the tallest building marking the city centre — although nothing of the sort seen in the skyscrapers’ of New York. Furthermore, this conspicuous development is seen in the phasing out of slums and ghettos. The progression is so palpable that one can distinguish the new from the old. In Muhire’s words, the original owner of the land in the slum is given the first right to develop the land or alternatively is compensated money-wise, or given land elsewhere. All this construction was in keeping with the government’s 2020 Vision to modernise Kigali and Rwanda. It is common knowledge that because of the leadership of the government of Rwanda, things have tended to work with the efficiency of a clock. It is said that any citizen can telephone President Kagame to report a problem. Corrupt government officials of any rank are prosecuted and jailed. The police is a people’s police in the very essence of what they do.

A Seventh Day Adventist Wedding

I have always maintained that the positive progress a state, a company, a family or any institution makes is rooted in the leadership who leads with a vision, passion, efficiency, discipline and integrity. These are virtues persons possess: — either one has them or not. It does not matter how popular one is, the direction of progress takes on a very definite character. An example in America’s political landscape will illuminate our minds. America has had forty-four presidents since independence yet only a couple of them standout: the founding fathers, Abraham Lincoln, Franklin Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, and J. F. Kennedy; they made a difference. The ordinary man on the streets of Kigali will tell you with fervour that Kagame is their man. Why because he makes a difference in their lives. This is what leadership is about. Emerging from the genocide of 1994, it was possible for Rwandese to wallow in self-pity. Kagame insists that Rwandese must take self-agency seriously and change their circumstances instead of waiting for the government to do something for them. For instance — a very small example but one that shows the significance of the change of attitude — every month on a Saturday, all citizens are called to participate in a project of keeping Rwanda clean: everyone from the president to the humblest man on the street participates. Rwanda along with Singapore are reputed to be the cleanest countries in the world, a journalist claimed.

The Good Things of Life

That afternoon I visited the genocide memorial. To come to Rwanda and not visit the memorials is to miss a historical event that defines the destiny of the Rwandese people. There are many sites around the country but Muhire took me to Kigali Memorial Centre, organised along the lines of the Apartheid Museum of Johannesburg. The memorial tell the individuals stories of those who were butchered by fellow Rwandese from infants to the old, the weak, pregnant women and the infirmed—every one was affected. I walked into that building into total silence disturbed only by the breeze outside, the distant drone of car engines, birds chirping, my footsteps and my breathing. I paced slowly through the corridors and the rooms. Hundred of photos lined the walls, accompanied by narrations of the events leading to the genocide. Further on downstairs I came to a room bearing the remains — the actual bones of the genocide victims: hundreds of skulls bearing the evidence of a mortal blow. I had only the afternoon, but it was a place you could not visit in a rush. I had many questions racing through my mind. Honestly, I did not have answers.

I remember reading somewhere that after the 9/11 events, some Americans had questioned why God had allowed these things to happen. In my little faith, it was so clear; I couldn’t doubt that God had nothing to do with this. It was easy to shift the blame to some other source — in this case completely disregarding human capacity for free will and choice, which in my view God respects. But this is besides the point in this narration. My consolation, however, was that the true heroes were all the Rwandese people, who having learnt from the events of the genocide, had decided to forge ahead with their lives. I left the memorial that evening in a very pensive mood, but with even more questions.

Wedding Match

The evening was not helped by Esperance's absence. I had come to visit her, having come all the way from Johannesburg; she had gone off to a wedding returning a few minutes before I departed for the night. I was livid but kept my cool, I knew what to do.

The Love Affair that Soured

2010-03-14T08:31:00.003+00:00

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Towards Rwanda

In both Rwanda and Burundi, one drives on the right side of the road. It took some getting used to this new way of driving especially at traffic circles. As I drove towards Kigali, I kept thinking of my long association with the Rwandese people. It elated me. Rwanda was a fascinating country: its history, politics, culture as well as the beauty of its female species. It was rumoured that Rwandese and Ethiopian women were the most stunning in the world. But that aside, the Rwandese people unbeknown to me were involved in my life from my child days.

Rwandese according to historical accounts shares the same ancestry with the Banyankole of Uganda. In fact, as a child, I often thought of them as Banyankole. In the Eastern part of Uganda, we thought they were the best cattle herders. Being cattle keepers ourselves, it was a common practice to hire a mulalo (acronym for Rwandese) to herd our cattle. They were mostly paid in kind at the end of the year by giving them a heifer animal or more depending on the size of the herd. My grandfather Ananias who lived to a ripe old age of 120, and had fought for the British in the Great Wars had several of them tending his herds. I was completely oblivious of the fact that they were actually refugees.

In my little mind, I never knew that they had such a horrid history that led to the genocide of 1994. Unavoidably, the genocide is a spectacle that continues to appall me. I lived in a war ridden Uganda of the 70s and 80s and had seen people die for various reasons. But still I cannot fathom a country of two people — tribes butchering one another because one of them suffers from a superiority complex. I know this is simplistic but just suppose by way of comparison, according to Encyclopedia Brittanica, Tanzania has 120 tribes, Uganda has 47 and no one knows how many there are in the Democratic Republic of Congo since some of its jungles are yet to be discovered. Imagine what would happen if Tanzanians turned against each other?

A Street in Kigali

I had seen the bodies on television; I had read the stories in news papers. I had discussed the matter with Peter my roommate (at Makerere University), who was a Rwandese. It was rumoured that Rwandese had constituted the bulk of Museveni’s fighting force during the struggle to oust Obote and those who succeeded him. And now I was riding on the roads of this beautiful country whose story had captured the imagination of the world. We all remember too well that the UN had stood by as these people butchered each other. Every category of people seem to have participated in some way or another in the genocide including priests and nuns of the Catholic Church. They had turned against each other or participated by denouncing any one who was not of their kind.

I remember being very frightened of these events and feeling hopeless and helpless. I remember crying while watching hundreds of bodies bloated and floating on Lake Victoria. Holocaust or genocide, it was simply terrible that rational humans could savagely turn against each other and do unspeakable things.

Mr Muhire My Host and Guide

I was deep in thought and paid little attention to my surrounding as I drove towards Kigali. I was here to pay homage to all those who had lost their lives fifteen years after the event. In my culture, paying homage to a dead one never ends. I remember that 15 years after my maternal grandfather passed on, relatives from one of his wives came to pay homage. It was huge function.

Sad as the story of Rwanda might be, I had also come here for another very special reason— a matter of the heart. I was going to meet a beautiful Rwandese, Esperance with whom I had been communicating for a while. It was a secret I had guarded closely. At the border, I telephoned her to say I was an hour away from Kigali. I arranged with the brother to meet at the city centre. I was partly here at the invitation of the family.

One thing which gripped my attention as I headed towards the interior was the cleanliness of the country. There was no dumping anywhere, a common feature of most places I traversed. But even more remarkable was the absence of plastics: bottles or bags. Who does not know about the curse of plastics? A documentary on National Geographical Channel had revealed that this menace had even registered its presence in the seas of the South Pole where it was wrecking environmental havoc. You need not look far, but in the water gutters and channels to see the stamp of this cancer. The curse of plastics!

As I rode, I looked around for evidence of the genocide; there was none. The ordinary folks of Rwanda went about their chores. If you had arrived from another planet and had never heard of the genocide, there was no apparent suggestion that 15 years ago neighbours had slaughtered each other.

Mr Muhire, Esperance’s brother met me about 3:30pm Rwandese time. He was a handsome young man just after his mid 20s. He had recently completed his law degree and spoke fluent English. You will recollect that Rwanda was French speaking but was in the process of becoming ‘Anglophone’. He took me home to his cottage where I had bath. Later that evening, we went to his elder brother’s home where among others I met Esperance. In her photo, she was an absolute stunner, which explains why I had satisfied myself with contemplating her ‘diagram’ (Idi Amin’s soldiers’ language), a permanent residence of my wallet I whip out and espied at the slightest opportunity.

The family had received me warmly. As we dinned, I had delighted them with the tales of my odyssey. They were so enchanted and entertained that they wanted to hear more. But I was simply so tired that I had to beg them to allow me retire for the night.

Modernity in Kigali

As we walked home, I had confided in Muhire that I was happy he was putting school above everything else. I said to him that with Education, he would never go wrong. And that although it was a costly investment, and sometimes the returns were long in coming, it was a good investment. We had spoken long into the night during which I drifted off into a deep slumber. Even the mosquitoes, of which there were plentiful, failed to upset my sleep.

My Burundian Experiences

2010-02-28T14:40:00.010+00:00

Although Rumonge was a large town by Burundian standards, I easily found Chez David. It was a large building in Victorian style in the middle of the business enclave. Since most folks in town seem to know it, I assumed it was a major hotel. It did not have running water, and electricity worked only for half the night. Despite this shortcoming, it was clean, well run, safe and with an exciting night life

A View of Lake Tanganyika From Burundi

Papa Libanga who welcomed me hailed from the DRC; he was the receptionist as well as the manager — a very pleasant man in his late 50s. After securing a room, I had one thing on mind — to stuff myself. I told the chef I wanted a typical Burundian dish. It turned out to be my favourite grilled fish presumably from Lake Tanganyika served with baked potatoes. While the meal was cooking, I took a bath. It was a cold evening, so I requested for hot water which was delivered to my room in a plastic bucket. After a while, I returned to the foyer to wait for my fish. I took a look around. This included sampling some Burundian lager — Primus — in the biggest bottle I had yet set eyes on. I chose a strategic spot overlooking the foyer. I sat unaccompanied taking in details of the surrounding environs.

As it were, French, Kiswahili and Kirundi were the languages spoken so communication was possible with the first two. It was the first time I was in Burundi. Geographically, it was a very beautiful country lush green rolling mountains as far as the eye could see. The good roads provided for fabulous riding, which was what I was here to do. The people were very kind and generous.

I must confess that it was the country I least spent time with the local folks. But like Rwanda, its people had a fair share of suffering — the Hutu-Tutsi hegemony that had unfolded over the decades culminating in the death of President Melchior Ndadaye at the outbreak of the Rwandan Genocide. Vice President Jacob Zuma had brokered peace between the government and the rebels; the truce seems to be holding. It is this that enabled me to travel through the country that was supported by South African National Defence Force (SANDF) soldiers on peace keeping mission.

In art of living together (social contract), as long as one group of people seeks political, ideological, economic, ethnic or social supremacy over the other group, whether this is intentional or accidental, the very fact of this disparity is a blueprint for trouble sooner or later. This is the essence of Karl Marx’s analysis of societies beginning from the feudal societies to the capitalist societies. This primacy might manifest itself in different forms yet it basic character remains the same — power- control over the other. One needn’t look far in the annals of history to find plenty of evidence — the most recent being the genocide in the region of Darfur in the Sudan and of course Rwanda-Burundi. I was so occupied by these thoughts that I failed to notice that my meal had been waiting for me for sometime. So famished, I tackled the food — hmm the fish was absolutely divine! The best grilled fish I had eaten in a while; it was washed down with another helping of Primus. Fed and so worn out, I crawled into bed. My eye lids were so heavy with sleep; it was like lead was tied to them. The last thought in my mind was the appreciation of the day. It had been a most satisfying day. And then I passed out.

I was up early as was my custom. I had slept soundly. I felt refreshed and ready to ride another day. I had a hot bath out of plastic container. I had little to pack since most of my luggage had remained on the bike.

I rode off thinking I was most blessed to be riding this route. I had so far driven in lands I never thought in my wildest imagination I would walk one day. There was no doubt that Africa was a blessed continent: the people its greatest assets, the fruits of the land, the climate, the sun were some of its joys. Little wonder then that that historians claim it to be the cradle of human kind.

On Burundian Highway towards Rwanda

A couple of years ago in autumn, I travelled to Spain for a conference. I also used the occasion to tour Western Europe. I flew to London where I spent some time discovering the queen’s land, and eventually ended up in Seville. Following the conference, I visited the countries bordering Spain on mainland Europe. It was then while walking on a street in Portugal that it transpired that Europe would never be a home for me. It was a gut feeling. Make no mistake; Europe in many ways is a desirable place to be, but I knew it was not meant to be for me. And so going through Burundi today was the confirmation of my thought of years ago.

Lake Tanganyika was on my left and across its waters was the DRC. It did not seem like a terribly wide lake. One thing was distinctly obvious that the lake was sitting in the valleys of the mountains that surrounded it. It was the most beautiful sight. I wondered whether Burundians thought the same as I did. As I rode towards Bujumbura I stopped so many times to gaze and get pleasure from this amazing beauty.

I had been riding for 50 kms when I espied a woman with a small child on her back a common means of transport for children on the African continent. On her head were beautifully arranged clusters of ripe banana in a basket, the likes of which can only be found East Africa. It struck me how this traditional advertisement was so effective that I had notice it a distance away. I did not have much space on the bike but I thought I would buy five bananas for breakfast. When I enquired the price of a cluster, she said it was two hundred Burundian francs. Well I needed five fingers only. I gave her a thousand francs. I said she should keep the change but give me only five bananas. It was about 8:00 o’clock, and in East Africa it a common belief that if luck comes your way in the morning the rest of the day will be blest. It is impossible to describe the totality of the joy on her face. I had virtually paid her for the entire basket but only taken five bananas. The small crowd that had gathered thought she was so lucky. I believed that in giving, I am also given. I had received so much and yet so much more was yet to come. I rode off a very cheerful man and with five bananas to fill my stomach.

As I went down the highway, there were soldiers either in pairs or small groups. Burundi was just emerging out of war; this explained the presence of soldiers everywhere. In spite of this scenario, it never occurred to me for an instance that my own safety was at risk. My mind was entirely applied to riding and that was my preoccupation. Of all the countries I rode through, Burundi is the one that gave me the most pleasure. Riders will be familiar with ‘twisties’. It was like you were going uphill or downhill in a circular motion. In high speed this was pure bliss. My ex-fiancée had once described this experience as ‘orgasmic’; I couldn’t agree less. Scorpion was up to the task and I matched her with equal enthusiasm. This might sound dangerous and it was for most of the part; yet, the thrill of beating drivers thinking that their big Land Cruisers could out-compete a big bike on those twisties merely added to this experience. Scorpion was not just any bike, she was built for this purpose and she was in hands of a capable and experienced rider. In our love experience, every time I massage her into taking those twisties, she yielded with passion and without reservation. Battered as she was, she gave me the orgasmic experience.

I could come behind a driver and just hung there. Some drivers would not let me pass but instead increase their speed. The way a car handles twisties is very different from the way a bike does; twisties are more forgiving on a bike. I would lean the bike and still take a corner at 120kms or more. It was scary; very scary but there-in was thrill. I would pass those drivers and they wouldn’t be able to tell what had passed never to see me again. In this manner I reached Bujumbura.

Just before Bujumbura, I was stopped at a check point. It reminded me of the 70s during Idi Amin’s Uganda, of dangerously looking men hooded behind dark glasses typical of the secret service. This one asked me question after question and checked every paper. When he finally let me go I was in a very bad state of mind. Well I did not know why, but I thought that era was gone where men in glasses were a law unto themselves. For this reason, I filled up my tank and left Bujumbura immediately for Ngozi, Kirundo and finally towards Kigali.

At the border I could see signs that the East African Community (EAC) was alive and working. Burundi and Rwanda were the new members of the community. They shared the same building which was brand new. One side harboured the Burundian immigration, customs etc., while the other half was for Rwanda. The services were efficient and in no time I was riding towards Kigali on a brand new road; it was about noon.

Crossing the Frontier Into Burundi

2010-02-22T05:31:00.001+00:00

Frontier Crossing

Northern Tanzania is without a doubt a living Eden. Yet the mud and the rain were seriously encumbering my ability to fully exploit my enjoyment of the scenery, since riding was reduced to ensuring that I survive the slippery roads. I reached Kasulu resembling the colour of the road I had been travelling. My immediate concern was to find a mechanic to change my brake pads. I had, by God’s grace, just covered some 70kms of the some of the slipperiest roads I had ever travelled on almost none functional brakes. I came across a young man who boasted that he was the only mechanic in town who could change my brakes pads. I was wary of a boasting mechanic; I simply rode-off leaving him speculating whether he had said something that offended me.

Even The Women Got interested and took a Moment to Observer

The kindly folks of Kasulu directed me to another mechanic who changed the brakes in less than 10 minutes for a fee of 5$. Again, a crowed of young men around me was massive. I rode away thinking: Was this mass of loitering young men not a recipe for crime? In Johannesburg, if I came across a group of teens I would change direction. One evening, with my friend Horman who was visiting from Durban, I went out to shoot a sunset panorama view of Johannesburg on Kensington memorial hill. While on the hill one can see anyone approaching it from any side. I kept an eye on a group of young men who were on the road below. When they came up the hill, I was scared stiff. I packed my gear and we hurriedly went downhill on the same route they were using to come up. We knew we had to keep calm. The only weapon we wielded was the Silk tripod weighting 3kgs. It was a formidable weapon. I carried it in such a way to leave no doubt that I would use it in self-defence. At 6.1” tall, I must have looked menacing. One factor was in our favour namely, the speed with which we packed and hurried downhill. I could see the dismay on their faces. I think they had not counted on how quickly we would respond to this perceived threat. I held my breath when we went past them. One of them mumble something, but I was so focussed on getting away from them that I kept going. A Congolese friend had been recently knifed in the back and died of his wound. In Johannesburg one will get killed for a mobile phone of less than 150 rand. These were familiar stories. We did not want to presume anything. When we reached the main road at the bottom of the hill, to our horror, we saw that the teens were following us. Our hunches were right; it was a suspect group. We bolted as fast as our legs could carry us.

A Very Scary Moment Going Downhill

Preoccupied with these thoughts I was just hitting the outskirts of Kasalu when I came across a police mounted roadblock. It was not the first roadblock I had come across, but it was the first where I was asked for my international driver’s licence. It was a youthful policeman making this demand. In my experience, youthful police officers keep the law to the letter with zeal and zest in the name of serving mother country. I have always had problems with them. In this state of mind, I took my time to dismount opened my topbox and asked him what other documents he wanted. He said, “Just the licence”. I looked him into the eyes and asked in his language whether he thought I could possibly come all this way without a licence.

I was not interested in his answer. I was soon on my way. A few kilometres down the road, I became aware of a noise from my chain. I knew it was so dry hence the noise. I stopped to lubricate it. Once again, I was on my way riding through beautiful rolling hills towards Mabanda the Burundian frontier about 90kms away. The road improved so that for the first time in two days I could ride at 70kms per hour stopping only to photograph the scenery. The rains were also forgiving and never fell until Christmas day. But my woes were not yet over — for the roads were still in a fearsome condition. I would meet with the mother of these conditions soon after the border crossing.

Today was the seven days since embarking on my odyssey. I was glad that after two difficult days of riding I was going to sleep in a different place and in a different country. This piece of tiding was incredibly pleasant, and so in a cheerful state of mind I resolutely set to complete the rest of the trip.

We kept trying to Go Down Slope

I arrived at Manyovu boarder (Tanzania) about 2:30pm. It was the only place I was asked for my vaccination card on the entire trip. Custom’s clearance was quickly settled. I was in such a jovial mood that I parted with 10$, ‘donating’ it to the custom officer. I think it was the joy of leaving Tanzania behind, but in truth he was also a very affable character who genuinely asked me about my trip. I cleared immigration and the last of my problems started immediately.

Mabanda was 500m from Manyovu. To get there, I had to go round a bend and downhill at about a 420. To compound this state of affair, a Chinese company constructing this road had recently dug it up. Since it had been raining all morning, there was thick mud everywhere. Even the custom official said that it would be a miracle if I crossed to Burundi.

As I came round the bend, a group of about ten 10-15 year old offered to help for a fee. How could I possibly refuse! They attached themselves to the bike on both sides and the controlled slide downhill begun; that is how it felt. They pushed a little at a time. In one sense it was like skating but at very low speed. All the while I felt like my heart was beating in my throat afraid that any time the entire bunch would end down-hill in a heap and possible destruction. But these kids were adept at what they were doing. I put my faith in their little hands. But my faith was tested for the first time on this journey. It was very scary to say the least. It took us close to 45 minutes to descend to the bottom of the hill. At last I could breathe a sigh of relief. I looked back and could only shake my head in wonderment: How did we make it to the valley! I settled my bill and off I road about 5minutes to Mabanda.

Covered in mud, I knew I was an awful sight by the way the soldiers at the border looked at me. I had last spoken serious French in 1997 in the DRC. I was now in a French speaking territory and did not know if I still remembered any of it. You know how sometimes you speak confidently thinking you are saying something sensible while you are unknowingly using obscene language or simply giving a wrong answer. I remember my Ethiopian friend Tesfay who was asked “Comment tu t'appelles?” (What is your name?). And he answered cheerfully: “Je ne bois pas de bière”. (I don’t drink any beer). This was hilarious and we often joked about it for a long time. Bonjour! I called out. “Passéport sil vous plait” the immigration offer requested. My passport was stamped and I was soon on way. I thought I would ride to Bujumbura but that was not to be as you will soon discover. I also had to clear customs at Nyanza about 30kms away which was my immediate destination.

The Misty Mountain Side of Burundi

I was able to keep a constant pace of 80kms per hour. I arrived at Nyanza at 4:40. I paid customs 30$. I met an elderly man probably in his early 60s who was extremely polite. Once he knew where I was coming and going. He said my son welcome home. He took me to his place and had me wash some of the mud off. He made some tea and only after having it, did he allow me to go. I obtained some Burundian Franca and I headed for Rumonge. My host told me that I could not go to Bujumbura since the road closes at night. He also gave me the name of a lodge, Chez David, where I was to reside for the night.

Driving along Lake Tanganyika In Burundi

I glanced at the GPS; I was riding some 2400m above sea level. Up in the mountains and looking below was a breath taking sight. The mist in some places was so thick that I could hardly see more than 10m in front of me. As I descended down the mountain, the tarmac road turned towards Bujumbura along Lake Tanganyika. It was a delightful sight. The best part of it, however, was the hero’s welcome I seem to receive in every little town along the way. Everywhere I passed I was given an ovation. I couldn’t help throwing up my leather gloved hand to wave as long as I could and put on an air of a hero. After days of tumbling, my welcome to Burundi was befitting. I was in the glow of merriment. In addition, it was thrilling to learn that I was the first rider on a V-strom to visit this part of the world.

Sheer Beauty

Remember Burundi in most of the 90s and recent times was in a state of war which eventually subsided with the signing of the Arusha Peace Accord chaired by the then South African second in command: Vice President Jacob Zuma. But peace was still elusive; thus, explaining why I could not ride to Bujumbura in the night. I was relieved to reach Rumonge tired but very pleased with the last part of the odyssey.

Northern Tanzania

2010-02-17T10:41:00.001+00:00

Changing Brake Pads

I had slept deep and sound with very few cares. Riding from Mitumba to Uvinza had been the toughest ride of my life. It tested my will, my physical endurance, my riding skills as well as Scorpion’s abilities as a machine of exceptional engineering. Yet, it was also the most adventurous and exhilarating. I was happy to be doing something close to my heart notwithstanding the perils involved. I refuse to live a boring life. I refuse to drift like a piece of wood downstream after a heavy down pour. I have never been a drifter. I have resolutely chosen the direction I have wanted my life to take at every turn. My secondary school history teacher use to say: “Every individual writes his own history and that is what the world reads”. This history emanates from the choices one makes be they good or bad choices. When I set out on this odyssey, the support from my friends, funs and family was a mélange of different emotions and attitudes. Charles my brother had categorically said no: in his view it was too risky. Little did he know that a company that takes out travel insurance would echo his very words. Some of my very Christian friends had reiterated similar sentiments. The response from my riding partners on the Wild Dog Forum ranged from very hot to lukewarm. I could sense extreme eagerness and support to palpable fear and indifference for a variety of reasons, but there-in-lies the difference. There are folks who wait for things to happen to their lives. That has never been my style. I have always made things happen to my life. When a travel insurance company declined to insure me claiming it was too risky an investment, I did not weep and mourn. I simply set out on the Odyssey; here I was today at Uvinza. I was in an upbeat spirit and in the mood for the next leg of the trip. I had remained in bed for a while assessing the previous journey. In sixteen years of riding I had as many tumbles in one day on the same stretch of road. I chuckled remembering the consternation, the panic, the tears, the darkness, the rain, the lonely road, the exasperating insects and the fact that I was drenched from the neck to the toe of my boots.

I think part of my excitement was to do with my new destination. It would be the first time I was visiting Burundi, which was about 150kms northwards. I was looking forward to the ride with anticipation. I refused to take anything for granted. 120kms was apparently a short distance but yesterday’s experience had firmly convinced me not to underestimate the terrain and the elements. Much as I love Tanzania, I had had enough of its beauty, the hospitality of its people, roads and air. I had one thing on my mind — to get out. So I planned on setting-off at the earliest opportunity. I was feeling hungry; I had to eat something.

-->Beautiful Rolling Hills of Northern Tanzania

The sky was overcast and it did not promise a bright sunny day. I had this premonition that the ride was going to be equally tough. Before I went to inspect the bike, I placed an order for chapati (some sort of pancake made of wheat flour, oil water, and salt (sometimes sugar)) and tea. When the chapati is well made and it is a delicacy incomparable in its own right.

In the meantime, I checked my front brakes. I was shocked by what I saw. The front brake pads were non-existent. A chill went down my spine like a bolt of lightning imagining the unimaginable. I lost my appetite. The imperative was to replace them. I loaded Scorpion, and wasted no time in setting-off to look for a mechanic.

The roads were fearfully slippery. Western Tanzania is situated on the western flank of the rift valley. As a consequence, the soil texture is volcanic. This makes it exceedingly slippery when wet. I was in no mood to explore Uvinza, and so did not see much of it. As Uvinza disappeared behind me, the road led to Kigoma, a port on Lake Tanganyika.

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My Favourite Green Banana and our mode of transport

Scorpion was hurt from the many tumbles. She had some mechanical problems whose gravity was impossible to assess at this point. For example, there was a rocking noise emerging from the below the instrument panel that grew progressively loud on a corrugated road. It took me another 1000kms before I discovered the source of this noise. I looked several times but could not figure out where the noise. The second problem was the brake pads, which I intended to replace either at Kasulu

As I embarked on the trip, I was debating whether I should go to Kigoma. To be absolutely sure that I was not putting myself in jeopardy, I stopped to ask about the road conditions to Kigoma. The answer and my two mechanical problems dissuaded me from heading to that direction, for I was not looking forward to getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. Kasulu had my undivided attention — a northern town, about 60kms away. I reached a junction and turned northwards away from Kigoma. I soon realised that I was in for real trouble. A grader had recently tried to improve the road surface. The problem was that it loosened more earth, so that when it rained the road became one massive mud puddle. I had learnt my lessons the previous day but this in no way lessened the hazards waylaying me. On a certain portion of the road the mud was so thick and sticky that even a Land Cruiser that was following me out of tacit agreement had difficulty navigating the stretch. It was not surprising that the 4km stretch took me two hours to cross but only because I employed two men to hold Scorpion on each side, literally walking her.

As it were, it remained overcast all morning and early afternoon, sometimes rain fell intermittently. The road to Kasulu was thickly wooded. During the early part of the journey, I met hundreds of folks going to the market being a Friday. I would have loved to spend some time at the market but the rain and the mud dampened my interest. So I plodded on. I don’t know how many times I tumbled. I was no longer interested in the statistical details. But one notable one that would have brought my trip to an abrupt end is worth mentioning. I was going uphill. Both sides of the road had gorges more or less 3ms deep. My speed was about 30kms per hour. Scorpion front wheel turned right in the slippery mud and the rear slide so that I was now travelling vertically on the road heading straight for the gorge. I have never been as frightened as at that moment. I don’t remember the actual thoughts racing through my mind at that time but for some reason the front tyre turned again and I was facing the direction I had just come from. I let Scorpion roll down hill using the momentum of her weight. I stopped and sat on a rock to rest my heart which was beating like I was in love with death. Had I gone done that gorge, at best a crane of some sort would have been necessary to hoist me out, and at worst I would have sustained many broken bones. I still look bad and a shudder goes down my spine. Someone definitely protected me.

When I had regained some normality and there was less adrenaline in my blood stream, I tried again this time with the help of two hefty men and walked Scorpion up hill. I soon left the wooded road behind and was riding on a terrain of rolling hills — absolutely beautiful. In this manner gazing and drinking the beauty of Mother Africa, I arrived at Kasulu about midday exhausted but alive and thankful to God for His protection.

The Road Via Hell

2010-02-08T08:21:00.001+00:00

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It was very hot. I was very tired and hungry when I reach Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda, a small remote town situated in Western Tanzania. But food and drink were the last things on my mind. Something else was ― the topbox.

The Top Box Carrier After Fixing it

I saw man on Honda 125cc, who said he was a mechanic; we rode to his workshop, well, under a tree where there were many other mechanics. They all shared the same tools. Meanwhile, about thirty people mostly young adults had gathered and remained around until my departure. When I bought Scorpion, the topbox rack had only two plates holding her in place instead of the recommended six. This oversight was the cause of my misery and twice, nearly brought my life to an abrupt end. I removed the top box and explained that I wanted two extra sets of plates, nuts and bolts made to hold the topbox rack in place. For the next two and half hours, he was in and out of the workshop. Finally he had the plates fixed; he panel beat the Trax, cleaned and lubricated the chain. As I waited, I ate a plateful of beans, meat and rice. I also recharged my camera and phone batteries. For all his work the mechanic charged me about 10$. He accompanied me to the Petrol station, where I filled up and departed for Uvinza. It was about 2:30 O’clock.

As Mpanda disappeared behind me, the road began to travel through dense Miombo woodland. I did not know what to expect but somehow I knew that I would finish what I had started. The road was sandy, it herald difficult riding conditions. For the first time on this odyssey, I rode to reach a destination: It was a drudgery and humdrum affair in which I settled. As the day wore on, I covered more ground. But the further I went, the denser and lonelier the forest became. It was like I was being swallowed by an abyss. And so, every time I reach a curve, I began to wish that the end was near but a little out of sight. My mind also began playing games on me. I was imagining things like fearsome creature peering through the woods and plotting all kinds of schemes to make a meal of me. I was not really afraid but I could not help imagining these weird thoughts. Flying insects added to my misery and above all the whining of a mosquito! If one entered your helmet, it was a horrendous and unpleasant encounter when buzzed around the ear in its high pitch drone trying to find its way out. There was only one way to deal with it ― remove the helmet and find it.

The sand grew increasingly thick. At times the sand was more than a foot thick. In these conditions, it was no wonder that by this time I had tumbled eight more times. If I were to detail each one of them, I’d need more space than I have in these narratives. I will spare you the details but to say that I soon lost count. I just wanted to reach Uvinza. It was still raining sometimes just a drizzle and other times pouring heavily: I was wet, muddy and in very low spirits.

My Zumo did not help matters very much, it had again given up its ghost. So I could neither tell how far I still had to travel nor determine how far I had come. It felt like navigating a craft without instruments except the road.

Sometime during the cruise, I came across a Land Cruiser (it’s one vehicle you will find in no go places); I guess the driver stopped me more out of curiosity than any other reason. I was glad at least someone cared and was interested in me. He wanted to know where I had come from and where I was going. I answered all his questions in a monotonous voice. They’re very few things that can dampen my spirit, this road and rain had astoundingly succeeded. When I asked about the road ahead, his answer was vague and not helpful at all. It was the only vehicle I met this afternoon going the opposite direction. After the encounter, about 5 o’clock, I reached a T-junction (more like a Y-Junction) and took a wrong turn ― I could not decide which way to go. Fortunately, after 5kms, I came across a group of boys who advised me to take the other road. They were the first humans I had met in a while.

The ride was sometimes uphill and other times downhill. I reached a place where the bridge had been wash away. I did what all the other vehicles did ― I went round the obstacle. It was a mistake that nearly cost me a night in the forest. I got bogged. I pulled, I pushed I did everything; Scorpion was so heavy that she just sank deeper into the mud. After a period which seemed like an eternity, I heard voices behind the trees. I said in the loudest of voices in Kiswahili:

“You people see I need your help, and yet you are hiding. If you don’t come out, I will come and fetch you” And sure enough the voices replied

“We are coming” the voices said.

“But what is taking you so long?” I said impatiently.

“We are waiting for our friend”

They were teenagers when they finally emerged. With a big thank you, in five minutes I was on my way. I had lost about 45 minutes here. Although I was exhausted, I was not going to spend the night in this forest. My speed was reduced to 30kms per hour. That is the way it was for the rest of the journey. I reached another section of the road which was completely submerged in a pool of mud. It was very slippery and twice I slid into the mud and went down. I had long stopped counting the tumbles.

This is the place I called the young man to help

Falling was no longer an issue; raising Scorpion was ― I came to dread lifting her more than tumbling. She was draining too much of my energy lifting her up. It was now raining heavily and pitch dark. Fortunately Scorpion has some of the best headlights on bikes: I could see far and wide. At my speed, I was not the slowest vehicle on the road. I soon came across a truck that was travelling in my direction. For over 10kms, I was stuck behind this truck, even when I succeeded in passing it, it was a long long time before I finally saw lights signalling habitation. The forest extended up to the edge of the town to which I came across rather abruptly. This was the slipperiest road I had ever ridden on but I managed to stay upright.

In the pitch blackness of the night, I came across a man who claimed he was a guard. I asked him for the nearest lodgings. I followed his directions. This was not a well light town with hardly any street lights, but it was not a problem finding the lodge. In my sodden condition, I needed two things: a hot bath and a bed. I found both. I lay on the bed knowing I had survived whatever was thrown at me. If I had come this far and ridden this sordid portion of the trip, I could survive further assault. For now sleep was beckoning. I just wanted to sleep, sleep away all the tiredness. It was the most peaceful sleep of the entire trip. I don’t even remember turning.

The Road Via Hell

2010-02-08T08:04:00.005+00:00

Bogged Down 45 minutes extricating Scorpion

I lifted Scorpion onto her feet. There were no damages this time given that I was riding below 40Km per hour. I mounted her and road like nothing had happened. I had no cares whatsoever in the world but at this rate, this strip of the odyssey was in for a long haul. I submitted to my mundane fate; it was better for the health of my mind.

I need to emphasise that I experienced different weather patterns on this day. I started the journey with the day promising to be a great Mediterranean sunny day. But on entering the forest, the sun disappeared, which was replaced by sporadic rain. This dual-dance between rain and sunshine persisted for most of the morning and early afternoon. Thereafter until I reached my destination Uvinza some time at 10:17 East African Time, it was rain ― sometimes in buckets and sometimes just a drizzle.

One of my major losses the previous evening some place between Simbawanga and Mitumba, my Assault rain suit fell off the bike. It was the first thing I lost on this trip. Yet in spite of this set back, my Firstgear suit was quite adequate in protecting me against the elements.

By this hour, I was riding in Katavi National Park. The rain had stopped. This portion of the road was firm with neither sand nor mud. I was in a sanguine mood and adjusted my speed to 90kms. I recall this because I glanced at the instruments and the needle on the odometer looked like it was stuck on the digits 90. I burst into a clearing where the trees were more or less 100m from the road. I came round a fairly steep bend, and then hell simply broke loose. First it was the yoyo motion of Scorpion, and then she was galloping away, or shall I say she went berserk. I remember crying “dear Lord what is going on!” I was both surprised and very frightened. My heart was racing away too. There were times I was literally airborne: the bike jump to the right side of the road and then to the left, I had throttled down but was terrified to use the brakes given the slipperiness of the road left behind. I applied all my energies in controlling the direction of Scorpion; I wanted her to remain on the road. She swung back to the right into a trench. I succeeded to I wrestle her back onto the road and lo and behold I saw myself acrobatically airborne flying over the handle bars. I don’t know how long it took but I felt my head connect with the ground. I don’t know how many times I rolled; however gravity did not give me the luxury to roll forever. I finally came to a stop. Just when I thought it was over, in a fraction of a second, I saw Scorpion flying as if she had decided to somersault over me; but how? I closed my eyes. At that moment when I should have moved, I didn’t. I was frozen to the spot by what I had seen. I thought it was over. But only God knew the ending. Sometimes you do your best; other times you let the Higher powers take over. It seemed like an eternity before I heard the crush, away from me. How Scorpion’s 250kgs missed me, is something I ponder every day.

I lay there; how long I cannot tell. I knew I was crying because I could feel the warm tears flow over the side of my face. Slowly I sat up feeling my legs, my arms, my spine; I couldn’t be sure but it seemed okay in the interim. Then I just let go. Whoever said men don’t cry. I let them tears wash my cheeks. Well, I had the comfort of knowing I was alone. I did not know why I was cry; but it felt good to cry. I cried even more. But then something was burning; I quickly turned my head and saw smoke at the rear side of Scorpion. I climbed onto my feet so fast that I nearly toppled. My mattress had ‘untethered’ and come in contact with the exhaust pipe; it was that part that was burning.

It was not always easy. Some of the toughest roads here.

Meanwhile, I noticed that the topbox was flung out of sight. The mirrors were broken, the right indicator was severely cracked, the right hand-guard had snapped off the handlebars, and the panniers had taken much more beating this time acquiring almost a new shape. An accident may seem a long time in happening but it actually happens in nano seconds. The realisation that I was in a forested game park, got me working quickly. It was about late morning ― three tumbles in a row were a painful torture to say the least. This state was exacerbated by the loneliness I was experiencing. Indeed, this was a very lonely road. Since morning, I had come across one truck going the opposite direction and none my way. There were no human beings in sight for miles. I was also feeling very tired, not just physical tiredness but that of these tumbles. I was quite certain that this last one was not my fault. There are things you can be dead sure of in life; this was one of them. A form of depression was creeping over me like a bad spirit was taking over my life. Understandably, after these morning events, every stimulus was surely in place to send me into a severe depression. But with sheer will power I refused to go that route. I was thinking about resuming my journey. But first I had to raise Scorpion.

She was loaded slightly more than 250kgs dead weight. Raising her each time was a pain and at feat: the former because I dreaded it, the latter because I looked forward to advancing the odyssey. I check her for further serious damages; there were none. The crush bars and the panniers had absorbed most of the shock. This was by far the hardest fall I had experienced. It was now that I removed my Arai helmet. It had quite gash on the rear side. It must have been a stone since this part of the road was littered with them. The helmet would simply have to be replaced. And where was my topbox? It was twenty meters behind a bush. I do not doubt that for the second time the topbox nearly killed me. It was time to give it a permanent solution in the next town.

An hour went by before I had everything secured onto Scorpion. I hit the start button and again, she yielded. I shouted “Scorpion” in absolute joy like a ten year old boy. I was still smiling when I pulled away. I was very grateful to God that I was shielded from ending the Odyssey prematurely and unceremoniously. In a pensive mood, I rode on for another 30kms before reaching Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda still shaking, dusty, hungry but alive and well. It was a very close call.

The Road Via Hell

2010-02-03T08:53:00.005+00:00

Peering over my broken screen

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To say I was thoroughly shaken to the marrow is an understatement of my mortal condition on that road. I am not a hero. This sort of incident could spell disaster; I mean real trouble that could have become a nightmare of disproportionate scale to deal with. Our Lord at the Garden of Gethsemane was terrified of the prospects of his suffering. I had joined these ranks. I was genuinely terrified of the scenario of a certain eventuality to come. It has been days since I had communicated with anyone in the ‘civilised world’. Much as I was enjoying the odyssey, “Wake-up”, I told myself. This fleeting transition, as engendered by the fall, from the atmosphere of idealism to realism was precise and brutal. Further persuasion was unnecessary. I heard the message.

Within the Human anatomy are hardwired mechanisms to cope with any inexorableness although the scope and degree varies for each person. As it were, in spite of my state of affair and still shaking like a leaf in the winds, I reckoned it was to my profit to ride on the crest of the wave rather than its base, for to allow anything to dampen my spirit was like to give an open invitation to Master trouble. I decided without the slightest hesitation that a positive spirit was a better and much preferred companion. It was also reasonable to reduce my speed to 60km per hour, but by the reckoning of subsequent events this was way still too fast as I would soon discover.

Unlike my first tumble, whose cause I had to figure out, I was more or less aware of the circumstances that led to this tumble. It was therefore necessary to carry out some post-mortem.

But in the interim, my mind was preoccupied with my environs. It was a beautiful morning with a clear azure sky, with huge cotton-like clouds adorning the heavens. The air was crisp, clear and clean. It was simply a magnificent countryside ideal for riding. I was entering a wooded area that was not dense with undergrowth. I slowly breathed in the air. I could feel the crispiness as the air rushed through my nostrils. I loved it; I loved the trees; I loved the birds flying across the road; although, sadly one had blindly flown into the bike and got killed. For a while, I allowed nothing to disturb this mood. This is what I needed. Besides, a great spiritual saying teaches us that while we are in consolation, we ought to gather as much of it as we can in preparation for desolation. I suddenly realised that I missed my family, my friends, my colleagues at work and my home. I checked myself momentarily. Where is this 'missing' stuff coming from?

I did not want to think of loneliness. It was not a palatable subject at the moment. Thinking of the reasons that caused my fall was of practical import to me to learn from the experience. As it were, it is rarely true that a single factor will wholly explain an accident. My first suspect was speed. Riding at 100km per hour on such a treacherous road was a massive risk although this was not immediately impressed on my mind when started this leg of the trip. I had also noticed that this red mud apart from being slippery like a mud fish, it also stuck on the tyres. This means that it clogged all the thread patterns thereby affecting traction. In addition, the Anakee II Scorpion was wearing were not suited for this kind of road conditions. I am not an expert but I have wondered whether wearing knobblies would have made any difference. That I had very little traction was an idea that was to be proven right in a short while. But before I discuss this proof, the third suspect was the general condition of the road. Like I said earlier on, this road was recently graded and there was a lot of loose earth which was turned into mud by last night’s rain. In my view these were the causes of my tumble.

I rode on grateful that the odyssey was still on. My speed was reduced even further to below 40kms per hour since the mud was now a real menace. This red mud! All my riding skills were out of the bag: sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, and sometimes my feet helping with the balance. I was grateful that my off-road Garnae riding boots were a very good investment. For the first time I appreciated their true worth, yet they had one terrible weakness: water tended to seep into the boot through some crevices I have not been able discern to-date. The predicament was a health one. If they boots were soaked and wet inside, a whole day was necessary for them to dry. Sometimes I did not have a whole day. I was obliged to wear them wet. But bacteria, leather, moisture, socks and flesh are a bad combination. The first sign of this trouble was the petrifying reek. It was so potent that it has the potential to knock you senseless by merely depriving you of oxygen.

Ammonia is nothing compared to smelly boots. I remember, in 1979, I was visiting my friend Maloba who was studying at the same primary school with me. His elder brother Wekesa was also visited by a friend who was a soldier. He arrived while we were all in the parlour playing Scrabble. That smell was like nothing I had ever come across. At first everyone was polite about it, I looked at Maloba and we knowingly looked at the offending pair of legs. Soon everyone was at the risk of fainting, for this was not just about the overwhelming acrid smell, but there was most probably a chemical reaction producing a noxious gas. Shortly, I developed a headache. The poor soldier was soon dispatched to wash his boots and feet. Considering the matter in retrospect, I think the soldier boy was not even aware of the problem.

It was while engrossed in these thoughts that I went down the third time. At least I saw this one coming. I said that I was riding on the crest of the road. The simplest way to imagine the shape of this road is to imagine the keel of a boat, albeit a gentle one. Well, there was a truck coming in the opposite direction. I always give way to these trucks which I did with this one. I was riding downhill and battled to bring the bike to a gentle stop but somehow it was a battle. I went down. It was an insignificant fall; a fall nevertheless. The tuckers reached me as I was going down. They drove around me and kept going.

I realised that I needed a healthy respect for this mud-road. In less than 15kms, I was down the second time. I was determined to continue my trip, nothing, not the state of the road was going to stop me.

The Road Via Hell

2010-02-03T06:59:00.016+00:00

The Scenary I

It had rained hard the previous night as a result the conditions of the road had changed. This implied that the riding strategies would equally have to be adapted. It was the first time I was going to ride in these wretched circumstances: mud, rain, sand, hills and valley coupled with distance, loneliness, fatigue all fermenting in the same pot at the same time. Unbeknown to me, the balance of the odyssey, my courage, endurance, physical fitness, was going to be tampered with: stretched and, tested beyond anything I had experienced in a novel way. It is for this reason I called it the “Road from Hell”. The real difference is that I emerged from this hell shaken but grateful to be alive.

The Sun was glorious waking up from its sleep; its golden arrows streaked the Eastern skies making it glow in a melange of beautiful strange orange-golden colour. The problem with this east at Mitumba was that it was not the one at Jozi. It was a relative east, to borrow from Einstein. Yet I knew it was east since the sun always rises from there, and nothing in recent science had suggested that this thesis had changed. But what kept me wondering even more was whether our sense of direction has something to do with the Circadian Rhythms? As I pondered these matters, I brushed my teeth and doused my face with cold water. This was inevitably the third day I was doing without a bath; it was alright.

In spite of the experience I had gained over the days packing the bike, it still took me about an hour to tie-down every pieces of luggage. As usual the local citizens were milling around me. I know I can start a conversation with any one and talk about atoms, politics, the laws of supply and demand, enzymes, cooking or my favourite theme ―bikes, yet there were instances when I would give preference to being a monk ― a few moments in the morning. It helps shuffle stuff in my mind: meditate or whatever name you give to it. Right now I was thinking about the road ahead, yet it was impossible to avoid my hosts. Rashid was here to introduce his wife to me: Huyu ndio shemeji, he said (It is a complicated to translate a local language directly into English since some of the words have no equivalent. In this case, the literal meaning was brother here is our sister-in-law). In the way he had said it, he regarded me as a brother, member of the family, and thinking about it later I was amazed by the extent of the inclusivity of our African languages, of which I speak ‘treasurably’ but modestly a good many of them and understand by extension the various dialects.

It was time to go ― the chief. I had to request his permission to depart. After a while, I found him among women who were sorting rice, either for a big feast or for the eating house. I said to him I had slept very well. I inquired how he had slept. After exchanging salutations, I said I was very grateful that he had hosted me. I prayed that he will be kind to many more who come his way, and that I was asking for his permission to continue my journey. He said indeed he rendered me his blessings and that I should travel with Allah. As was my custom, I slipped a gift secretly in his hands. He said he accepted it and was very pleased. I said I would come back one day, nearly letting a tear roll down my cheek. I had already been warming the motor for about ten minutes and with a crowed to bid me well, I rode off in a very jovial mood saying Asante! Asante! (Thank you).

The Scenary II

That was my first mistake. Riding off in a jovial mood, now that seems odd to say. It was not a bad thing in itself. The problem was it clouded my immediate judgement to details of the changed road conditions. This might seem a contradiction but it is how it happened. But I rode off in same attitude I had ridden yesterday: speed, not exactly understanding that the rain has made the terrain a dangerous place. It was the volcanic soil that is as slippery as oil. As I began to breathe in the air, I began encountering pools of water on the road. My good senses advised me to slow down: I climbed from 120kms to just below a 100kms. This portion of the road evinced recent road improvement activities. The road had a convex shape and my idea was to ride on highest part of the convex presuming it to be hard, safe and would provide traction. In the middle of the road I pushed on desiring to cover as much distance as was possible today.

It happened without warning. My second tumble came to pass this moment. Replaying the scene in my mind later, it was like in the movies, the frames had been slowed down a thousand times, the bike turned vertical from travelling horizontally, and begun to lean to my right at the same time sliding to my left and reducing the 180 degrees faster than I could blink. I separated from the bike and was thrown clear into the middle of the road. I heard my screen snap, and then silence for even Scorpion had switched off. I lay there waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for, just waiting fully conscious. I was still in the vicinity of human habitation but it was early in the morning about 10kms from where I spent the night.

The Road Continued after my Second Tumble

In times of tragedy, and I think this is true of Haiti in the wake of the earthquake, one of the sweetest sounds you can ever hear or long for is the human voice. I don’t remember whether my eyes were closed or open but the voiced said “pole” (I sympathise or emphasise with you) and she held my muddied gloved right hand. Slowly I sat up. No pain, good I thought! I moved my legs and hands no pain, good! I leaned forward and supported by her I stood up. All this was happening in silence. I was covered in the red mud from the top of my helmet to the toe of my boots. It was like someone had soaked me in the red mud. My riding gear is normally impressive, at least in the photos. The red colour had replaced the black and yellow. I could not stifle a chuckle. Then I burst out laughing thinking that even my own mother would not have recognised me in my new outfit. I said to the Angel Lady Asante! I remember mumbling something like “journeys are sometimes like this”.

I inspected Scorpion. It seems she has sustained some damage. The screen was broken from the fame holding it into several pieces: it was irreparable. I retrieved the road licence which was stuck some place on the inside. I stood Scorpion on her feet. The evidence was clear: the aluminium panniers had absorbed most of the shock and had acquired a new shape. In addition, more reflectors had fallen off. Scorpion herself was unscathed. I stood her on her side stand and waited for her to take some breath then hit the Start black button. She roared into life without hesitation. That sound was really uplifting, the second sweetest sound I had heard that day. I could not hold back a tear that decided to roll down my cheek. I realised our bond was a very special one. I was glad the helmet was on to shield my face. I had removed it temporally to clean the mud off the visor. I shuddered to imagine Scorpion not starting; what would happen? I mean not start in a serious way. I was about 3500kms in the middle of nowhere. I believed at that moment that I sat on Scorpion, waved and rode-off. That was the first of the more than fifteen falls I would experience that day on a stretch of about 280 kms. I normally cover 100kms in 50 minutes. Today was a new experience; I would spend exactly 15hours and 17 minutes on this stretch of road, for hell had just broken lose, but and it is a big one, I knew that the Lord was travelling with me as pillion.

A Night at Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

2010-01-20T15:04:00.003+00:00

I remained sitting on the bike for about thirty minutes, the motor idling and the bike on parking lights. My heart, as it often did, suggested to me that this was the place to stop for the night. I waited for the owners of Mitumba to come to me. Anywhere I stopped; there was never lack of people who came to scrutinize this unusual visitor, to satisfy their curiosity, to fondle the bike – that is what they did. About ten people were around me. It had one advantage; it always gave me the occasion to start a conversation. In this case, I requested to know if there was a headman or chief of the area. It was a very small trading post. In chorus, they pointed to a shop directly in front of me. When they learnt that I speak fluent Kiswahili, they said Karibu, which means welcome. He is in there, they said. I promptly dismounted from the bike and approached the shop.

An African A Market Day -- Bananas

Shikamoo baba I cried. This is a Kiswahili greeting to a person of respect (elder). In his case I added baba, (daddy to spice it up), thus elevating the respect I was paying him to even a higher notch. Shikamoo has Arabic origins and can be translated as I hold your feet. After the salutations, he asked me to sit. I patiently waited until he had finished his business for audience. He eventually sat beside me and in this manner, I introduced myself, my purpose and why I wanted to see him. He was a very kind man in his late forties. Having understood my purpose he promptly showed me two places where I could pitch tent. He said the one nearest to his house was the best since I would be in his compound. I said I speak fluent Kiswahili and I also understand the cultures of the region. For this reason I did not find it difficult to blend with the folks of the town. After parking scorpion and pitching tent, I went to find company and some food. Rashid was a citizen of the area I invited him to join me.

A Market Day -- Pinapples

These people are amiable folks and terribly welcoming; it was like I had come home. We sat in small eating place and ordered grilled chicken and Ugali (pap or maize meal). As we waited, we sipped Kilimanjaro, the local bottled beer. Two extremely beautiful ladies joined us. I subsequently learnt that the village headman was their uncle. They operated the eating house. I noticed it was predominantly Muslim. On this note it is necessary to point out that one reason why Islam is very successful is because it tends to blend and fuse with the local culture; this makes it appealing. Islam has blended so well with Swahili as a culture since the days when the Arab dhows came to the East African coast to trade in ivory, spices, slaves and the like. In fact in my own social origins, to have a cousin who is a moslem is common place. It was easy for me to notice all this marriage in the surroundings around me. I need to mention that Kiswahili as a language is spoken widely in the Great Lake Region (Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Congo (DRC), Burundi, Somalia and parts of Southern Sudan) although in a multiplicity of dialects.

As conversation flowed oiled by Kilimanjaro, we spoke about a variety of subjects: marriage, relationships, and politics. My favourite theme was education. I learnt that my host was married. He said he had three boys. I am a teacher and naturally was inclined to speak about the value of education to the generation of tomorrow. I was able to extract a promise from my host that he would educate these boys and the ones yet to arrive, for he had indicated that he was going to have two more children. Although I was tired and would have loved the company of my tent; presently, I loved the company of these ordinary folks. I had become one of them at least in attitude. They spoke from their hearts, the simplicity of their manner, the generosity of the rural environment was way different from what I was used to in the metropolitan of Johannesburg. For me it was a way of reclaiming what was lost or rather what the metropolitan had dispossessed me. I knew that with wide ears and open eyes there was something to learn from them folks.

It was the coming of a storm that signaled my time to depart and take up residence in my tent. And so it rained so hard that night in a manner I had not experienced during the entire trip so far. It was like the heavens had simply opened all its taps. I was secure and nothing disturbed my peace; I simply drifted off into the land of sleep.

Into the Heart of Western Tanzania

2010-01-19T15:15:00.010+00:00

To Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

When I set out on this odyssey, numerous friends prayed for the success of my trip. I knew it was blessed by the Devine and that it was meant to be. There are many reasons for saying this but an outstanding reason was that this trip was initially planned for December 2008, it simply failed. Although everything had been taken care of, it seems certain mental preparations had not been met adequately. I subsequently realised this in retrospect. I supplied a bona fide but incomplete explanation to explain this state of affair on the Wilddog Forum.

Saint Ireneus once said that God works through nature. I am not a theologian and will not give treaties on this subject, but my simple faith demonstrated this in a very ordinary manner. I did everything as far as it was humanly possibly to prepare for the initial trip but it simply failed. How many times does something fail to work in your favour but you are hard-headed and insistent that it must go on as planned? How many times do you ever listen to yourself and the circumstances surrounding you? In the subsequent preparations, which preparations were even better including trying to arrange for Travel Insurance from a reputable firm, one day after a long delay and on the eve of my departure, I was inconveniently informed that my trip was too risky and could not be insured. In short, I departed without this facility. I had done lots of travel preparations by trying to cover every conceivable contingency. My Wilddog Forum colleagues were instrumental to this end either by way of advice, such as from the late Ibele Kruger, supplies from Kurt Beine among others, actual work on the bike, from my buddy Andy. Among others, TravelGravel, for instance, sent her phone number saying that if ever I wanted to communicate she would provide this avenue. It is not possible to enumerate every act of kindness that was offered but suffice to say that God works in mysterious ways. Of all the preparations I did, neither my friends nor I remembered to think about the appropriate tyres for the trip – knobblies. I had discussed every detail for most of the trip but hardly anything about tyres and even where I did it was more out of curiosity. For some reason I assumed that Anakees would do. As I pointed out previously they are good tyres but only to a certain point. At this point of the trip these tyres were a none-issue. This oversight would result into many tumbles so that after the fifteenth event, I stopped counting.

Just passed Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

I did not spend much time in Sumbawanga. I rode down its main street – the only tarmac portion of the road – filled up on petrol and headed for Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda about 250km to the north. A full tank would cover this distance. I wish to alert the reader that petrol in this part of the world was approximately two dollars a litre. As I left that town behind me, the sun was beginning to go over the horizon; I was anxious to reach Mpanda before it was dark. On tarmac this was an easy trip, but on dirt road my first real test of my riding skills on this sort of terrain was an ordeal. As I gathered speed, I realised that the road was not as firm as the one I had just ridden on into Sumbawanga. A close look determined that a grader had recently levelled this road. This had many implications such as lots of sand collected together but disguised. I could tell from the way Scorpion was dancing on the road that there was a lot of loose earth beneath my tyres. In addition, if it were to rain as it did that night, the entire road become one big pool of mud that would make it very treacherous to ride on. Towards the equator the sun sets quickly. I decided to maintain a decent speed to cover good ground before it was dark. I was also worried by the fact that Katavi National Park was between me and Mpanda. I decided that the first town I came across, I would call it a day.

A Land Cruiser was in front of me and the amount of dust it was raising was blinding me, and some of it was entering my air vents in the helmet and obviously my mouth. When I had a chance to pass it, they never saw me again. It was not until 7:45 that I arrived at small town called Mitumba; by then it was pitch black; I could not see my hand in front of my face. I was tired, hungry but glad that I had enjoyed this portion of the trip although it had started in the morning with a tumbled.

To be continued…

Livingstone Falls

2010-01-19T13:40:00.000+00:00

Livingstone the Falls- Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls- Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Welcome to Tanzania

2010-01-18T13:08:00.008+00:00

The Road Ahead toward Sumbawanga

I am now riding on a typical African ‘dirt’ road: rugged, portholes, sand, loose stones, and generally not maintained. Let me mention that I did not have knobblies for tyres; I had Anakee 2 which had handled the paved road surface as well as on firm dirt road so far very well, but that is about it. The story takes on a new twist when I begun to encounter different dirt road conditions as you will soon learn. In hindsight, and ever since I returned from this trip, I changed to 50/50 tyres. These are good both for paved and unpaved roads to some extent.

Part of this trip was to relish the riding on different road surfaces. This being the aim, my first encounter on the dirt road in spite of my first tumble had wetted my appetite for more. I picked up speed gradually climbing to 120km per hour. I man the machine and Scorpion mans the road, it is a perfect scene for the duo to perform a perfect rode dance. It is about 2:00 pm, my destination is Sumbawanga a small dusty town located about 200km from the border. To say that the stretch from Mbala (Zambia) to Kasesya border post (Tanzania) was a bad road is an understatement. It was the beginning of the road from Hell. If truth be told then it is that I tumbled so many times that after the 15^th tumble, I stopped counting. Well the next stretch from Kasesya for the next 200 kms was firm dirt road with loose stones and lots of dust. It was thrilling to leave a cloud of dust trailing behind me. You see, the little joys of life are in the little links that make life worthwhile and leave ones face creases with a smile. My delight was to be on this odyssey with all its attendant factors.

A Market Day -- Pawpaws

Although riding required 110% of my attention to which I committed myself to the extent that I decided not to listen to music from an Ipod a generous friend had lent me, I always allowed myself a little serious thought. I did not want this to be a trip just for its sake: the fact that I was riding alone was a great source of pleasure. It allowed me considerable measure of time to be alone and therefore room for some deep thought on many personal issues. 2009 was particularly a good year if such a thing can be said. Part of the ride was to say thank you. I was grateful to the Divine that I had received many blessings one of which was that I had landed a permanent job as a lecturer. Yet in the midst of all these joy and laughter was raw pain, heart rending pain that left me sometimes numb and asking “why” to which I did not have answers. I will return to this point shortly.

In the meantime, I wish to say that all my life I had spent time doing things for people, and one of them was to seeing my 4 siblings through school. My mother had died when I was only 21. That is the age when you want your mother around since it is the point when you are making some life-time decisions. And even though you make the decisions, you need a trusted one to listen, to endorse, to question and even sometimes to remonstrate with you. It is that time of transition from being a teen to being an adult. It is an important time that makes or breaks you. I was very close to my mom; she was my best friend and mentor. I trusted her; I confided in her; I depended on her. One day she summoned me to her bed side in hospital. Without much ado she said to me, you are going to school – I was a just beginning my year as a sophomore – you will not find me when you return next vacation. To cut the long story short, that is how it happened. I remember the day vividly. One day I met my neighbour Alfred on a street in Kampala – it was a clear hot and dusty Kampala day. He called me by name and offered condolences for the passing of my mother. I remember sitting by the roadside and crying like a baby.

In our discussion at the bedside, mom’s desire was that I marry a beautiful lady and have a family. I wanted to join the priesthood; it was therefore necessary to obtain her blessings. She had gone silent for an hour when I disclosed my heart’s desires. In the end she said no. I had to take care of my siblings when she was gone.

In 1993 I found and feel in love with a girl I adored so much. Juliet, for that was her name, was everything a man desires in a woman: kind, hard-working, intelligent, beautiful, funny, and the list is endless. I visited Juliet on the 24^th of December 1993. That was the last time I saw her alive. She was tragically shot and killed on the 1^st of Jan 1994. She was the second beloved person I was lost in a space of two years. What was the meaning of these happenings? First it was mom and now it was Juliet. I cried so much until I had to beg God to stop the tears. The tear stopped; I never cried again about Juliet to this day.

In June 1995, I joined the Jesuits for priesthood training – for the next eleven years I was in the training for priesthood against my mother’s will.

In 2006, I quit. In October 2008 I got engaged to a Xhosa girl – a great person, very intelligent, a great soul. We planned to marry on 28^th Feb 2010, but alas it was not to be! She told me one day, she was not interested any more in the relationship. She left the engagement ring on the table. I subsequently disposed of it at Livingstone Falls. It was painful – but what could be more painful than the loss of mom and the loss of Julie? I had to learn to live with such pain. Lots of friends gave me strength. In this manner, delving deep in my life experiences, I covered ground to reach Sumbawanga about mid-afternoon without realising that I had covered nearly 200kms. But my pains were not yet finished; a new wave was waiting somewhere in the realm of the unknown.

Arriving at Sumbawanga

The First of the Many Tumbles

2010-01-04T05:15:00.004+00:00

Kasama with the Manager my Host

It was a dump night. I could tell by the heavy dew on the tent. I was up early to prepare for my northward trip. I was finally leaving Zambia today into my third country since I embarked on this odyssey. Tanzania is laid back peaceful country that I came to love since my first visit in 1995. I subsequently studied at the University of Dar es Salaam, and lived and worked in Dar as well as Arusha for a couple of years. If such a thing can be said of a country and its people, Tanzania is a gentle country. So, unlike Zambia which I had visited for the first time, Tanzania was not foreign. Yet western Tanzania was some place that always fascinated me. In this region was one of the longest and deepest lakes in the world. My dream to see Lake Tanganyika was just about to materialize.

In the meantime, Richard the proprietor of the property arrived at 6:00am. He as well as John gave me a hand in securing my luggage onto the bike. My itinerary was to take me as far as Ujiji, a sea port on Lake Tanganyika, where H.M. Stanley is reputed to have found Dr. David Livingstone. As it turned out this was not to be the case.

In the interim, just before I departed, Chief of Police arrived. As it were, he had a big heart for big bikes. Obviously he was interested, and the normal battery of questions followed: where was I coming from; where was I headed and mostly about the bike. He said he had ridden police BMWs and it appeared he would have given this yellow bike a spin had it not been that I had emphatically expressed my intentions to depart. He settled for a photo opportunity. After this event, I emptied all the Kwacha in my pocket into the manager’s basket and tipped John 5$. We hugged and bid each other farewell.

The Police Chief of Kasama Biding me Farewell

People in this part of the world are generally good-natured. It is therefore not out of place to be treated like a long lost cousin returned with warmth and goodness. But it would be a mistake to think that everyone is good. There are two forces governing, namely, good and bad embraced in an eternal battle, and each is vying for a place in the human heart. Classic examples of this battle have been seen in recent history in the story of Mother Theresa of Calcutta as well as the Rwandan genocide of 1994 of which I will speak about in my Rwandan leg of the odyssey.

Mbala was my current destination 160 kms from Kasama. I wasted no time in covering this distance. I travelled through beautiful country side lush with green forests as was most of Zambia adorned with lots of savannah grasslands, especially the elephant grass. It was also the mangoes season needless to mention, I gorged myself on this yellow fruit.

So far it has seemed a flawless trip, but that was about to change. My real problems started on this leg of the odyssey. I arrived in Mbala to discover that although there was a border crossing, the Immigration office was in Mbala and customs at Mpulungu, and not at the border. I discovered this when I stopped to refuel and in conversation extracted this information – good fortunes. At Mbala, I easily located the immigration office. It was locked and a notice on the door said: call Mr. Mpalula. Two numbers were clearly written on the door for this purpose. The assumption was that you, of course, have a phone. I didn’t. I went to a municipal office in the vicinity and a guard agreed to help me. I bought airtime and he called the numbers on the door. The officials promptly arrived. One technique I seem to have mastered well on this odyssey is to display my most charming-self even when commonsense dictated self-defense, to put it bluntly. In dealing with any immigration and custom official or any authority for that matter, a combination of politeness, salutations, introductions, and stories were valuable assets in getting things done. It was a strategy I used to simply my life. At Mbala, my particulars were entered into the ‘big book’, and my passport promptly stamped. Just when I thought I was done, the immigration official said I had to ride to Mpulungu at the foot of Lake Tanganyika to clear customs. It meant another 90mins return trip in the opposite direction. Not having a choice I settled to this task. It was not a totally wasted effort. It was a beautiful country side. I encountered my first mountains and afforded me the first glimpse of Lake Tanganyika.

Mpulungu is a typical one street port at end of which is a pier. Apart from fishing, this was a port of travel between Kigoma on the Tanzanian side, Kalemie, on the Democratic Republic of Congo side and Bujumbura of Burundi. I arrived at customs to find the officer had gone for lunch. It was an hour before he returned but only because I had complained that I was not happy with the waiting. Another official had volunteered to call him on his cellphone. In the meantime, I espied the lake. The water was green and according to the immigration official stationed here, it was so thick that it was not good for anything. As I mentioned above, Lake Tanganyika is the deepest lake on the African continent and formed as a result of volcanic activities. The immigration official said that throughout the year, a number of tremours shake the vicinity. I need to say that at this point, my camera had stopped working. So pictures in this part of the word are lacking to corroborate my adventures.

It was about noon. My custom clearance involved the official’s signature and stamp to make it official. I departed. I needed to refuel once more. I found a petrol station attendant who accepted my dollars in exchange for fuel. I had not eaten since morning. I wanted to be out of Zambia. So I gave up seeing some water falls in the area. I followed what was more of a track than a road. It was the third time I would be riding on dirt road. This was particularly a very bad stretch which in due course resulted into my first tumble on the Zambian soil. What a way to depart a country!

I had travelled for some 27 odd kilometers, of this 40kms section when I reached a section of the road which had been traversed by trucks. It seems to have rained such that the truck left very deep tyre gutters on both sides of the road.

It happened so fast. What I clearly remember is the swaying motion of the bike from one side of these gutters to the other and in what was violently forcing me to ride from one side of the road to the other. Imagine the gutters. The bike was out of the gutter onto the other surface of the road then back into the gutter and as if in slow motion, I went down on the left side of the road. I was probably doing 50kms. There was dust everywhere. Scorpion switched off. It was my real first tumble since 1992. I was in the middle of nowhere. When I managed to extricate myself from under the bike, I assessed the initial damage. Myself – none. Scorpion – none just an injured ego. But what had really happened: I am a mindful rider! Then to my horror I noticed that my topbox was missing. It contained most of my immediate tools: all spanners, foot pump as well as and my travel documents. I never use profane language but f I think I did use some of it for my mouth seemed to have retained the ugliness of having used foul language. I remembered a friend’s words: buy a net and wrap it around the topbox. Why had I ignored such simple words? Where was my topbox? Who has picked it? Why did I not hear it falling off? My mind was working furiously.

I knew I had to remain calm, for I still had a long way to go. A stable state of mind was vital and requisite for the entire trip. I was thankful that I attended the Honda off road riding course. They had practically taught me how to lift the bike. Believe me folks, Scorpion turned out to be so heavy beyond anything I had ever imagined. But in one clean move she was up. Second assessment, the left side pannier had lost its reflectors, had taken some pounding but other than that Scorpion has survived her first character check. Just then at the corner my eye I saw something in the bush on the left side of the road from the direction I had come. I blinked several times to ensure my mind was not tricking me. I made a full turn and looked at the place; surely I could not deny it was the topbox. “Thank God I” whimpered in relief. I was so overwhelmed that tears rolled down my cheeks. I sat down and held my head between my hands. The thoughts that had run through my head were suddenly wiped away. Then it suddenly became clear what had brought me down; it was the top box. The sideways motion had forced me from one gutter to another and the roughness of the road simply multiplied the swaying motion that in turn aggravated the imbalance that finally brought me down. I was carrying about 20 pounds of stuff in the top box. The rest is history. Sometimes we don’t learn from our mistakes. Because I paid less attention to the top box, history was to repeat itself twice.

For now, I fetched the topbox. The rack had come off and so needed fixing it back on the bike. When I ignored any attempt to understand what had happened. It was bad judgment that created environment for a subsequent disaster. If I am well, it is only by the grace of God.

Roadside Market selling the abundant Mangoe Fruit

In the course of fixing the top box, three sojourners, my country men from South Africa, travelling in a Toyota Hilux, arrived at the scene of accident. They inquired if I was ok. If truth be told, I was tired, sweating, and hungry. In addition, I would have gladly done with some company following the tumble. It is human nature to require company when afflicted by calamity to reassure us that we are not alone. Well, for some reason I don’t know even after considering the matter, I said I was ok; they continued their journey. I was later to find them at the Tanzanian border post.

A Market Day -- Non-GM Tomatoes

Sometime about 2:00pm I came to the border post very dusty, shaken but alive and full of enthusiasm to continue my adventure. I never said it was going to be a smooth odyssey. Tumbling was inevitably going to be part of the trip with certainty because Scorpion has only two wheels. This trip required stamina, courage and gusto. I was not in short supply of these motivations.

The border post consisted of a closed gate and a small house with a two flags on the roof and someone manning it. I was cleared and allowed to cross to the Tanzanian side.

Into the Heart of Zambia - Destination Kasama.

2009-12-29T10:21:00.006+00:00

A Morning in Lusaka

A familiar bird chirping in a tree outside my lodging window woke me. It was a sound I had heard so often but couldn’t tell the owner of such a sweet voice. I knew I should be on my way travelling north, but I did not feel like getting out of bed. These were holidays and sleep was part of the adventure. I drifted between sleep and being fully awake as I thought of the 1000 or so kilometers that lay ahead of the day’s trip.

It has always been my habit from high school to wake up at the second cock crow, something that has stuck with me even though I periodically treated myself to a good sleep. My way of life on this matter is that good sleep is a good antidote to one’s health. So, I insist on not less than seven hours of sleep. Generally I am an early bird to bed except in difficult circumstances. If the anecdotal evidence of my sleeping habit is anything to go by, I am grateful to God for a healthy body augmented by weekly exercises, a relic of my younger days when I played a mélange of sports: rugby, lawn tennis, football, badminton, and volleyball. I even tried cricket at one time many years ago.

I rolled out of bed. I had to type my ride report. My first problem was the sockets in this part of the world were the square-type. My computer had round a plug with round pins an oversight that was to affect the progress of writing my ride-reports. Frustrated, I went into the bathroom, which had the largest water dispenser I have yet seen — the size of a platter in rather a unique bathroom made of stone, wall to wall. It was also the first place I had a real encounter with mosquitoes on this trip. Fortunately I had slept under a net; however, in the office of the proprietor there were swarms of them. If I hate certain living things, I am not ashamed to say gnats top that list. I was not going, in the tradition of St Francis of Assisi, to call them brother mosquitoes. Don’t the statistics of the WHO say they kill more people than combined HIV/AIDs, tuberculosis and a host of other anti-human vermins? These thoughts preoccupied my mind until I left the bathroom.

I had left the bike unpacked the previous evening and so it was easy to get ready and going. In the meantime, I wanted some more of Zambian Kwacha for petrol and so I had to find a Bureau de change. Zambia is one odd place where the use of the dollar is not an offence. I paid my lodge rent with a 20$ bill, but I was not sure this would be the case up country, so the need for Zambian Kwacha. The goodness of the human heart came to my rescue. I asked John, who had watched over my bike in the night. The man had been extremely kind. He loaned me his phone to send some test messages to my various contacts: Andy and family. I wanted to send just two text messages. But he said I could have the phone for the entire night. I was humbled. I remember joking – if you girlfriend calls and you don’t reply or some strange voice answers, what would she think of you. He laughed and said “you are my guest; take the phone”. The following morning he also cleaned my screen and helped me perform my routine ritual of securely tying everything on the bike. At this point a small crowd had gathered. After many words or appreciation, I set out to find the mall, which was on my route out of the city.

I arrived early; the mall was to open at 8:15am. I struck conversation with a well dressed security man like you would find in any metropolitan city. Our topics were diverse. Every time, I chatted with someone, the conversation would begin with the bike. For most folks, it was fascinating to find, a ‘black’ man touring on a bike. In general, and only from anecdotal evidence, tourism is considered a ‘white’ man’s activity. I often wondered whether the enjoyment of the good things of life is the preserve of certain races. Well, the question that was asked repeatedly went something like this:

“You mean you have come all the way from South Africa?”

“And I enjoyed every moment of it”, was my standard answer.

“On a bike”, the conversation would continue.

"Yes, in flesh, bone, blood and metal" I would reply.

This was usually followed with the nodding or shaking of the head, to which I would put a positive interpretation to imply agreement or wonderment. In the meantime, the Bureau De Change opened and the security man literally led me by hand and explained that this man is travelling and needs some kwacha. No paper work just the exchange of currencies – my 100$ for an equivalent in kwacha. Loaded, and in the company of my new acquaintance, I went to ShopRite and stocked up on water, samosas, rolls, and biscuits. It was now about 8:30am and I was anxious to set off. I bid my guest farewell thanked him with a 5000K and was enroute to my next destination in northern Zambia.

I eased myself into the journey gradually building up speed. Zambia is a unique country. The fact that it is wooded right from Kazungula provided such a contrast with the familiar South African Veld. T2 is the highway cutting though Zambia from south to North (part of the Great North Road) passes through tropical forests that stretch as far as the eye can see — different from the wooded shrubs of Northern Botswana. While I drunk in all this beauty with my eyes, and breathed in the clean air, most of this part of the journey was hard core riding on a very good road through Momba, Kabwe and Kapiri Mposhi where I stopped to have a good meal and rehydrate. I know I don’t make much fuss about eating but when I have a chance to eat, I never do it the military style, namely in a hurry, for it was most certainly the case that my next meal would be the next day.

After energizing myself, I set out to enjoy the ride and Scorpion eagerly and impressively yielded with her excellent performance. Man and machine churned away miles and miles of road. We travelled northeastwards, through Mkushi, Serenje, Kalonje and at Mpika, I turned northwards off T2 into M1. Along the way I found lots of honey on sale. I bought a litter. Anyone who has eaten unadulterated honey, as God intended it to be, will know that it is the sweetest stuff one can lay hands on. I also came across the biggest mushrooms I had ever seen — as large as a medium size tray. I remember taking photos but I don’t know what happened. Well, after refueling, now late afternoon, I set off. I was anxious it was getting late and my eleventh commandment is never to ride at night. Surprisingly the road was tarred and great. My target was to reach Kasama — the provincial capital of the region. In this part of the world, the sun sets early and by six o’clock it was dark.

On a clear day with the stars bright in the sky looking down on mother earth, I came across hundreds of young men and women hanging out on the road chilling away the evening. What a contrast! What would the young stars in a city such as Johannesburg be engaged in at this time? This was Bembaland and Bemba was the lingua franca. I speak English, but not everyone speaks it as I soon discovered. In one place, I stopped to enquire the distance to Kasama — my GPs had given up its ghost, a terrible inconvenience. Well, we could hardly communicate. The 20 year olds could hardly speak a word of English and neither could I speak Bemba. In next place I stopped they simply bolted away, every one scattering into different directions. I was intrigued. I could not understand why they ran away: was it the bike, the manner I was dressed, the fact that I spoke English or some unknown superstition. I chuckled and rode off.

By now, the Zambian Sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon and the pitch darkness enveloped me like a blanket. I had reduced my speed to a moderate 80km. I realised that my tall screen was actually a nuisance. For some reason it was obstructing my sight and vision to the extent that I stood to look over it. How odd? It was pitch dark that I decided that I was quits riding tonight. I would stop where my heart told me to stop as soon as possible.

I came across three teens and decided to try my luck. After salutations and pronouncing my names, I requested to see their father if he was at home. The house was good looking and tucked behind a green hedge. The teens response was “yes”. Promptly one of them ran off. Soon an elderly man came up to me. I presumed that the youngster had communicated my intentions. When I said I was requesting permission to pitch my tent, he said there was a primary school three kilometers down the road. Meanwhile, the youngster had returned with a glass of water in beer glass which I gladly accepted but it mystified me that he had brought water. I never mentioned water anywhere in our conversation. I drank the water and thanked the old man for his time, water and rode away into the darkness.

“Why didn’t the old man reject my request?” I was angry, but did not know why. I didn’t think the old man's refusal to be my host was anything worth losing one temper over. But combined with the fatigue of riding, a hot day, hunger anything was possible. I settled in the saddle and took the old man's refusal as an omen to reach Kasama. I resigned myself to this task. I might have ridden for 70km before I started seeing lights in the distance. I consoled myself the day would nevertheless come to an end. It was a relief to finally reach my destination. I had ridden 865km and had run out of enthusiasm to go any further.

When you arrive at a destination after the sun has set, it is kind of hard to figure out the geography. I decided to follow my heart — ride through the town until your heart tells you to stop — something like tossing a coin but even better. That I did and came to a brightly lit place which I assumed was some sort of lodging. I went to ask if they could give me permission to pitch my tent. The guard went to fetch the manager. Good fortunes smiled on me. By now sleep was beckoning. The manager, Richard a soft spoken and a very polite man personally directed and helped me to pitch the tent under a lamp post in a secluded area of his compound, of course, after he had heard my story that I was a tourist travelling through eleven African countries. His property was a hotel facility still under construction.

Nearby the aroma of roasting stake wafted through the air — how the mind works when it smells good food. I simply had to eat and an order was without further ado. Meanwhile, the guard showed me the ablutions and where to find water. Even though I was dog-tired, I did not want to appear rude, so I spent some time chatting with them about the places I had visited. The stories flowed helped by a local beer who name I don’t remember.

They were kind enough to realise I was tired and allowed me to retire to bed or rather my tent. I had no cares whatsoever. I just wanted to sleep. My philosophy of performance is ‘one day at time’; sleep is all I wanted to do now. I lay down to say thank you Father for the wonderful ride and some where in the process I promptly passed out.

The Good Folk of Lusaka

2009-12-16T17:01:00.003+00:00

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In Mbala just before leaving for Tanzania

I sat in traffic jam as time crawled by. If you think Johannesburg is gridlocked with traffic jams, wait until you get to Lusaka. I was very thirsty, hungry and was beginning to feel very hot. Cities can be intimidating, even though I live in one of the biggest on the continent, I felt uneasy in Lusaka. Where do I spend the night was the question that was beleaguering my mind? I could sense eyes peering at me from the windows of the cars around me. I could also sense the respect from the drivers, for every time I moved or tried to change lanes, even taxi drivers let me pass. It was humbling to know that there was lots of goodness around me. It was as though they were telling me: we know you are tired. How enlivening!

Scorpion Always attract People in Mbala

I went around central Lusaka for a while. My purpose was either to locate a place to pitch my tent or find some cheap place to lodge. What was immediately noticeable was that there were massive construction projects in Lusaka. I could also see from the well manicured lawns, modern houses, high walls with electric fences and well groomed guards. I knew I was riding through the posh suburbs of Lusaka. It was entirely accidental. If there was any resemblance with the city I live in, it had to do with shopping malls.

I recall denouncing the words of an Australian Jesuit priest who unashamedly told me that Johannesburg was like Brisbane or any large city in Australia. I asked him why it was not the other way round. In other words Australian cities set the standard. It is common to find folks who insensitively make themselves or their issues reference point. It is extremely irritating.

To return to our story, I could feel the pangs of hunger urging me to find something to eat. I had drunk lots of water but had not a morsel of bread since Livingstone. First I found an internet café and sent a few emails and posted on my web-blog. Eventually, I turned into a mall and what do I see: Debonair’s Pizza. The world was indeed a small Place. If you remember the comedy "The God's Must be Crazy 1" and the Coca-Cola bottle dropping from the sky, you know what I mean. I ordered a medium size Pizza. In the interim, as is my custom, I approached a man who introduced himself as Lukas. He said “you are unusually dressed”.

“Thank you Lukas,” said I. “I am a rider, just arrived from Livingstone. Would you know of a place I can pitch my tent or find some decent but cheap lodging?”

“There are plenty of places but you’ll have to look around” said he.

“And what is the security situation like,” I asked?

He spent the several minutes painting a bleak picture of Lusaka’s security problems which I listened to half-heartedly. Don’t forget I live in J’burg. It seem like security was his favourite topic.

I collected my pizza and was on my way out, when I met two white men having a beer. I introduced myself with the intention of asking them if I could pitch my tent on their grounds. Once I said I was from Jozi (Johannesburg), it was all smiles. They even offered a beer which I declined. The older man, Mr. Van Niekerk man was from Jozi and the younger one Mr. Smith was from Zimbabwe. Both offered to help. Van Niekerk made a few phone calls and said there was a place I could lodge if I so desired. Mr. Smith offered to drive me to a campsite. In the end, a woman sitting on an adjacent table drew my attention and introduced herself as Maria. She said she overheard our conversation and wanted to help. She called a number and said the proprietor had said there was a place called the Goldengate down the road for 97,000 kwacha (19$). Some of these numbers can be huge, but with very little monetary value.

Meanwhile, I thanked the white gentlemen. Just before I departed, they asked me why I trusted “mzungu” (Whiteman). I said sometimes I trust them, sometimes I don’t and left it at that. I was tired and part of my mind had shut down to even consider such an idealistic subject. The active part of my mind was thinking about tucking me in a warm bed.

Maria gave directions. After giving her my card, I thanked her and arranged with a taxi driver to guide me to the lodge for 15000kwacha. Goldengate was co-owned by a German married to a Congolese lady. He was a soft spoken man who was also very polite. It was a short drive from the mall. I was so excited to have a room for the night, a hot bath and my pizza. How everyday things can bring so much joy. I recalled Alistair, back in the 1990s, an English tourist driving across African in a 1970 Landrover, to whom I offered some tea, with bread and jam. He said he had not tasted jam in since he left the UK. The joy in him was simply total. It was of such purity that you could not doubt its sincerity.

Well, just before I slept, I used the night guard’s phone to send couple of text messages. Every time I used someone’s phone I gave them 5$ worth of airtime. I had my phone on roaming but the last time it worked was in Gaborone. All I remember was thanking the good Lord for being my protector. Sleep so sweet, and sweeter than the sweetest thing was the only thing on my mind. Sleep beckoned; I yielded drifted off yonder into the unconscious.