From Cairo I headed further east to Abu Dhabi for a 17 hour layover where I was put up by a nice fellow from the British High Commission.  Then finally, after airport security discovered the puke a cat had surreptitiously laid in my carry-on (awkward), after a 13 hour flight where a poor Indian family was forced to sit under my cat-puke laden bag (sorry), I was home.

Kind-of. I was in New York, seeing old friends, walking the old haunts. But it’s different.  I’m home, but I don’t yet get what it is I ought to be doing. My priorities are muddled. I want to make sense of what I did, why I did it. I haven’t been able. It’s random the things that do pop up. Random people would like to meet, a guy wants a link to this poker web site. People ask simple questions, like how was it, why did you go. You tell the stories but it doesn’t come across, the adrenalin of trucks running you off highways, diffused by the daily drivel of endlessly cycling. Some days it’s like I did something, others it’s not.

Anyways, I’ve decided to go home-home, to the land of my birth, where cows are extra happy and the Packers ply.  I’m traveling the way I now know best, by bicycle. I left New York a few days ago. Hopefully, shortly, I’ll be home.

Khartoum, Sudan - ever the jokesters, the Brits had the streetgrid made in the pattern of the Union Jack

Cairo International

Tahir Square - no freedom here!

forces of oppression, onward ho! recent reports have the transitional government extrajudicially incarnating thousands.

on my second day, a soilder dragged me across five lanes of traffic, then took my camera and deleted photos (awkward)

stray cat - he looks Egyptian, no?

Al Azhar Garden

downtown Cairo

Cairo Citadel - Famous fortress today the site of two ancient mosques.

Cairo sunset

classic

pyramids are neat

Gaza City (and Camel)

Cairo sunset

Abu Dhabi Int'l

Barack Obama still has family in Kogelo, namely his grandmother, Sarah Hussein Obama. By American standards she is his step grandmother, but by African tradition she is his grandmother. She raised his father. After his undergrad, when President Obama went to Kenya, it was her home in Kogelo he visited.

Her home is like that of many grandmothers, decorated with the grandkids’ achievements. In this case, senatorial and presidential campaign advertisements. Most are signed by the President, with a note addressed to Granny Sarah.

I had the honor of briefly speaking to her, through a family member who helps out, translating and organizing her business. I asked to what she attributed Barack’s success. She replied that it is a great thing, so great it can only be attributed to God’s hands. She said that he has much work left. There is not yet peace on earth. She hoped that during his presidency we would all become better at living with one another.

Obama’s grandma – she keeps it real.

Her life, and the village’s, has changed dramatically. A couple months back Al Qaeda said they were going to assassinate her.  Regardless, most days she receives visitors. The government built a police station to protect her. The primary and secondary school are named after Barak Obama. The road is getting paved. They’re building a welcome center and small guest house for the President’s impending visit. Funny the turns chance takes.

in Kogelo, the Obama's ancestral village

they're building a new road for Obama's September visit

downtown kogelo - yes we can!

the obama welcome center and new road

Granny Sarah Obama

man on the right is the local chairman - he was the first Kenyan politician invited stateside by Obama

the primary school is also named after Obama

If I had to guess, based off the reactions I got, no one has ever bicycled to Kampala’s international airport, then taken apart the bicycle at the security check point, placed the pieces on the scanner bed, then made a box out of scrap cardboard, tape and plastic wrap and somehow gotten the bike on the plane without paying the prescribed fee.

Also I was running really late so they had me skip all the lines, security, customs and immigration. Intense day. Also it rained on the 40k ride in so I’m drenched in water and sweat with a good amount of bike grease mixed in.

But I still have mobile internet, i.e. it’s all good. I have a couple day layover in Cairo then home!

Keep in mind, this was the day we witnessed a truck shot out by bandits. This was the day we were guarded by soldiers wearing pouches full of banana clips. We were in deep, in South Sudan, the world’s newest and probably poorest country. There is no Flight for Life, there isn’t barely a hospital. If something goes really wrong, to put it bluntly, you’re just screwed, left adrift in a land devastated by fifty years of civil war.

Luckily for Ben, things hadn’t gone really wrong, only fairly wrong. He had accidently fallen to the bottom of a 20ft hole, which, by the way, was a latrine. Meanwhile, Spencer was naked, taking a sponge bath in a tin shack, probably only 30ft away, as the worm crawls. Between Ben and Spencer was an overflowing latrine; the poo slush sloshed out, it smelled so much like poo, the whole situation just really really sh*ty, like it’s hard to imagine a situation to which the word could be more appropriate

Anyways, so Ben was yelling for help. Spencer was like, huh? But, regardless, snapped on some shorts and ran out, through the poo slush, barefoot, wondering how many AK wielding bandits he was up against. Ben? Ben?! Down here! Oh. He was so small. Slash, oh holy sh*t wow you’re at the bottom of a 20ft hole in Kapoeta, South Sudan.

Spencer didn’t know what to do. Get help. Run to a hotel attendant to say, “so my friend is at the bottom of a hole…” He didn’t get it. English comprehension too low. Try the restaurant. Be more frantic. Yellow Hawaiian floral print government dude is here. Let’s work this. Attention received, run back to Ben. He looks down the hole. Oh holy Jesus. Yuppers, oh holy Jesus.

The attendant swung into action and climbed down the hole to join Ben in the latrine. “What are you doing? Why are you coming down here! Don’t you have a rope?!” No, Ben didn’t want company in the latrine, he wanted to get out. As the hotel owner frantically apologized, the whole hotel gathered round to watch the white man get pulled out of the latrine . Eventually they found a rope. They got Ben out. Miraculously, he wasn’t hurt. Everything was okay. The government man even said so, “it is okay.” No one is going to get taken out back and beaten because they let the American walk into a 20ft hole. It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Everything’s okay.

It almost wasn’t. Ben fell 20ft and was unharmed. He was so lucky. If someone had left a shovel down there, if he had landed differently, it’s scary just to think about. How far away was appropriate medical care? How long before a serious infection would have consumed a limb? We put ourselves in that situation. Were we crazy?

At least a little. After I got them to Ben, after it was clear he was going to be okay, I ran to grab my camera. They were appalled. “You cannot be serious.” Nah, I wasn’t serious. I was practically giggling. This was too funny. Don’t get me wrong – I also was still shaking in terror from Ben’s screaming, the guns, the violent ambience that hung in that air. But deep within it’s like I wasn’t capable of grasping the seriousness of our situation. Ben would be okay. Bad things don’t happen.

I have never seen someone die. Not even a chicken. Death is so far removed from my life that even when it comes right up next to me I barely recognize it. If Ben had landed to bleed out, a cracked bone protruding, how scary it would have been. A frantic rush to find phone numbers we had lost, to make calls to the embassy in Kampala on a mobile phone that didn’t have service, to wait for a medvac to Nairobi at ten at night, with airstrips that have no capacity for night landings, when the road back to Juba was blocked by bandits.

“You cannot be serious,” they said again as I held up the camera. To all the people who told me I couldn’t, to the South African who said I’d end up a pile of bones, to all their seriousness, I reply simply, “yes I can.” That is who I am. I can do anything I want. Let me take out my phone, I have the facebook slideshow to prove it. That is the reality I know. I wonder how different I would be if Ben had landed just a bit different. I wonder in all of history how many have been so lucky to remain as blind, crazy and ignorant as me.

the hotel. kapoeta, south sudan

the hotel restaurant - notice the bullet holes and how the wall is just blown in half

it was buggy

the room was functional

the hole

they then built a wall to prevent future fall-ins

considering he only got scrapped, pretty miraculous

Though, Kenya is not America. The roads are potholed, most buildings in a state of disrepair and unemployed youth abundant. Lake Victoria is the most tragic. There used to be fish. There used to be ferries that would go as far as Uganda and Tanzania. Today the lake is carcinogenic. That night I camped out in a dilapidated lakeside hotel. I was comfortable, with a cold brewski in a cushy chair. An Indian businessman told me, “All the fish are gone. It’s pathetic – these people don’t even care.” And there’s little else to do but sit back, enjoy the beer, observe, listen and await the next racist comment.

near Kitale, Kenya

could almost be Wisconsin

downtown Eldoret, Kenya's fifth largest city, home of its famously fast runners

just look at all that development! Eldoret, Kenya

a tea estate

Kapsabet, Kenya

downtown Kisumu, Kenya's third largest city

100 years development, nevermind that the sign is falling apart

abandonded dock on Lake Victoria, Kisumu, Kenya

Lake Victoria is now carcinogenic. The fish are mostly all dead.

after school transport

thoughout Africa, school childern are in uniform, prim and proper

southeastern Kenya

near Obama's village, Kogelo, Kenya

Traditionally, the people of northern Kenya were pastoralists. Many still are. They are called the Turkana. It was not uncommon to see a man with a bow and arrows tending to his flock of goats. The women are bare-breasted with giant colorful rings around their necks. We were on shinny bicycles with a lithium powered water filter and a computer navigation system listening to satellites thousands of miles away. It was a contrast that escaped no one. They would beg for food, water, anything.

Desertification, high birth rates and economic opportunity are transforming their way of life. From Loki south there is one road. It is dotted with towns overflowing with migrants attempting to escape a rough life dependent on the whims of nature.  NGOs are omnipresent. Most vehicles are Land Cruisers, stamped Norwegian Relief Council, Caritas International, World Vision, etc. It’s something you see all too often in Africa, the hopes of whole towns pinned to the West’s charity.

it was baren.

the Turkana people are pastoralists, traditional to the t

a camel!!

often times towns are not electrified. it's like a visit to Colonial Williamsburg, but real.

Kakuma Refugee Camp

Turkana man, Kukuma, Kenya

restuarant, Kakuma, Kenya

it's dry season; the rivers are empty. they do not build bridges. the road ends, then restarts.

host, Kakuma

is he going to bar or to the butcher?

host family, Lodwar (note the satelite dish!)

downtown center to the provinical capital, Lodwar

chicks are so cute. then they turn into chickens.

it was really hot and really really sunny.

deserts are pretty, just bring enough water.

At once: I am blinded by an oncoming semi-truck. My night vision is shot; there are no street lights. Ahead I barely make the outline of bicycle loaded with raw sugar cane six feet wide. I veer right onto the road proper where a minibus is overtaking the semi-truck. Oh crap. It honks; I veer left, into a pot hole. This hurts. Back right. Through a cloud of gnats, close the eyes. Open eyes. Three shadowy slowly moving bicycles, two seconds to impact. Hmm. Left again. Big unseen bump. Ow.

Repeat times twenty minutes. People point at me, shout. Mzungu! Mzungu! White person! White person!  In the dark I really don’t welcome it. Why are you so interested in me? It’s intense but also banal. Being on the bicycle, as so, that is my day to day. Cycle, cycle, awkward encounter, cycle, eat, sleep, repeat.

I look up and there, dark and lonely, almost hidden, is my turnoff, a ragged stone strewn road. I made it! My unconscious instant reaction was one of surprise – I made it! I didn’t get hit by minibus! Or a truck! No one mugged me! Wow! How absurd! I could be home with ice cream on a cozy couch watching TV! Why take this road? Why?

The cost was high. I am now broke. I lost a laptop, a few camera lenses and a month’s work. I crashed, went to the hospital and am now scarred. And yet, at least here and now, I am certain that it was worth it.

I look back on the past couple months. I remember the many places we went, the nonstop cycling that blurs from adrenalin riddled tiring tedium to a beautiful swath of nice scenery and wandering thought. I remember those days that had the happenings of weeks and, of course, I think of the many people we met.

There were the hopeless ones, the alcoholics and stoned glueheads. There were those who were simply stunned to find themselves in the company of Americans, like we were otherworldly aliens in possession of infinite wealth and wisdom. (How I wish it was true!) But mostly, people were fun, regardless of circumstance. So many helped us. They ranged from commercial farmers to the near destitute, very old to very young, of all backgrounds and sorts, the defenseless to highly armed paramilitary soldiers. It seemed as if helping another is an inherit human trait. That gives you faith.

For the next week, I’ll be in Kampala, attempting to put together the pieces. It’s hard to believe – the journey is almost over. New York City seems a world away. Regardless, I’ve got a lot of stories to tell. Stay tuned!

That week was epic. Excitement was in the air – literally flags fluttered from atop trees, mountains, pickups and people, there was celebratory honking, singing, fireworks and gunfire. It was a beautiful experience to behold.

And then you were forced to reckon with what South Sudan is, barely a nation. Less than 5% graduate from primary school. Tribalism rules; the government is weak. There is little to unite the people, many do not speak a common language.

A few people seemed violent. It’s hard to explain. You just got that sense. You would look at them and they would look back at you stone cold without expression or acknowledgment. It was like a poker face but probably more aptly described as a 50 year civil war face.

In South Sudan, you see how far we’ve come. You see what it means to be a nation. And how very important that struggle is, to do the necessary maintenance, that we remain one people, indivisible.

few roads in South Sudan are paved

it's a landscape of desert and verdant flood plains

UN helicopters ply the skies

there was sometimes a roughness in their character, a palpable violent edge

but others were extremely friendly

everywhere flags

more flags on cars per capita than anywhere else on earth

landmines! how exciting!

rolling into Juba - a paved road! rejoice!

independence was an occasion - excitement radiated

at South Sudan's first soccer game

South Sudan lost to Kenya's Tuskers, but it was a good showing

roadside stop. unlike most African shops, this one sold Pepsi!

everyone has to get their cell phone on

the dirt tracks were a joy to ride one

joyful youth; there is hope