On the morning of our departure from the lodge at the
foothills of Mount Kenya in which we had lazed away the last 8 days, we got up
and ready to leave with the speed and enthusiasm of an eight year old child
being forced to go to an evening communion service – one of those drawn out
ones where you drink cheap grape juice and attempt to digest a circular wafer
of polystyrene – that coincided with the Sunday night movie, Shrek 6.
It was 10:30 by the time we got going, stomachs full and
bikes loaded. Despite a bunch of gravel roads heading west, our new general
direction en-route to the Ugandan capital of Kampala, we headed directly south
on the tarred highway toward Nairobi before an acute turn at a T-junction lead
us back in almost the same direction we came. The reason for our detour and
sharp turn was not because of our lack of geometry skills but rather an attempt
to avoid the unknown quantities that were the gravel roads that most of the
locals pointed us down when asked for directions as any momentum garnered by
our heavy homes-on-wheels would be rendered all but null-and-void and only
cause damage to our bikes who – they have feelings – will need all the respite
we can afford them on our long way down. As it stands Chen's bike, Joseph, is
squeaking along with broken but usable front and rear pannier racks while
Nelson and Sebastian, Jim’s bike, are largely intact.
Hills and more hills were the order of the day – the next
three days in fact -, probably an appropriate punishment for our prolonged
period of doing nothing, something that we have perfected into an art form.
Thanks to the recent onset of the long rains, the Kenyan countryside has been
an experience in itself. Forests and farmlands have been nothing but green,
surrounding quaint towns and an impressive amount of schools, almost all of
which offer boarding facilities. The frequency of schools, both in and out of
town, is apparently largely due to an American programme that made finance
available to builders of schools, many of which have been left half-built or
consist of little more than the roadside sign itself and the lenders out of
sight and mind. As interesting as the schools were themselves, the names were
arguably more so. Prime examples displaying a disastrous lack of imagination
are: ‘Shining Stars Academy’ and ‘Bright Future High School’.
As we ventured off the highway where white-driven vehicles –
all 4x4s of course – passed us regularly, we were met with friendly and excited
shouts of, “How are you!?” that evolved into a rhythmical chorus of kids
chanting the line repeatedly in unison, obviously not as accustomed to our
fairer complexions as the people around the tourist-friendly Nanyuki. The general
reception was impressively positive with amazement being directed more at our
heavily-laden bicycles than the weirdly clothed mzungu riders with a strange variety of hairstyles and, at best,
inconsistent facial hair.
The third and final day of our trek to Nakuru was without
doubt my favourite of the trip thus far. Having made our way to over two
thousand metres above sea level, we came out on top of a mountain that
overlooked an immense valley, part of the Great Rift Valley that runs 9600km’s
from Israel to Mozambique, or so read the signs outside little curios shops. We
did begin to question the accuracy and authenticity of the tourism signs,
which, if all were to be believed, would mean we crossed the equator at least
seven times on the day, sometimes crossing from north to south and back in less
than fifty metres. Having undoubtedly being dealt the better hand with the downhill
into the valley being twice the size of the uphill out of it and followed by a
lengthy, gradual decline, we passed through more immaculate, arable land on
which tea and banana trees seemed to be thriving amongst pastures of cows,
sheep and goats operated by small-scale farmers.
In an attempt to become slightly more politically aware and,
more importantly, better at 30 Seconds, I am currently reading: ‘The State of
Africa’, from which one can gather an understanding –in my case a vague one at best
- about the varying effects that colonialism had on African countries. No doubt
a standout positive from my point of view is the introduction of ‘TNT’ into the
road building process. In un-colonised Ethiopia, apart from a disgraceful lack
of cricket and rugby, the roads rolled up over the peaks of hills and down
through the troughs of the valleys. Terrain which would have tormented our leg
muscles has all of a sudden become far more navigable as roads have been
blasted out of the side of mountains avoiding the necessity of ‘cresting’ the
hills – when you spend five hours a day on a bicycle you’re allowed to make up
your own jargon: fact – and starting climbs from the lowest point possible.
Going back to the first night of the trip to Nakuru, we set up
camp for the first time since I joined Team
TomAndMattAndJimAndBusterCycleWithTomActuallyOnAMotorbike.com. Having heard
from a girl called Brenner, who we met in Addis and was cycling solo up Africa,
that Catholic Church gardens were the poor man’s Hilton Hotel equivalent
campsites – except a lot freer – we ventured out in search of one in a small
town called Mweiga. After a Titanic-scale failure of an attempt to communicate
with the Church cleaner in English we knocked on the ‘Office’ door which, in a
very unscriptural-like fashion, was not opened unto us. Everyone is allowed one
bad and one cynical joke a day. I realise I have just used up both.
We resorted to parroting words out of a Swahili dictionary
and eventually were pointed around the back of the church to a double story
house with a garage of a couple smart-looking Rav 4’s. Daniel, who I can only
assume was the minister’s domestic, phoned up his boss to come suss out our
trio of vagabond cyclists. As we waited for the blessing or what would be a
terribly awkward and un-Jesus like refusal of shelter from Father John we were
scrutinised in pure fascination by a bunch students from a girls prep school
situated within the confines of the Church property. Thankfully, Father John, a
man who didn’t look like he went hungry too often, happily granted us
permission to spend the night on the church grounds and went as far as calling
us a blessing. Imagine that.
As we set up camp and cooked up a vegetarian storm – so more
of a gentle drizzle I guess – we were keenly crept out by two girls of about
ten who asked us to come to the church service in which they were dancing the
next day. Between meeting the catechist, Samuel - whose role in the church I
knew nothing about but found out that he gets his own office, cool robes and
has the task of holding the microphone up to the mouth of the minister during
the sermon and who was at best asexual -,the repeated use of the line: “Come to
my house if you need anything. Anything” from Daniel and a decent dose of
generalisation, I figured that it was probably a good thing that the school
next door only catered for little girls.
Having been woken up by - and therefore missed - the early
morning English service the next day, we attended the first twenty minutes of
the Kikuyu service (Kikuyu being a large Kenyan tribe that were displaced from
the greater Nairobi area by British colonisers) after we had packed up. Despite
the fact that pretty much everyone went through a ritual of bending a knee to
the ground and using water from Dumbledore’s pensieve to do the crucifix sign
that all the Brazilians do when they score a goal, one man sporting an Aston
Villa shirt skipping the ritual was enough for us to feel ok about entering the
church without doing the jig. We chose a seat on a bench right at the back on
what turned out to be the side of the church designated for females so that we
could make a stealthy exit after the dancing. Once the little dance routine had
been performed with the cohesion of a Tin Roof dance floor bobbing to a
dub-step track and in between a few lines by the minister that we pretended to
understand, we snuck out the back door as unnoticed as three white okes wearing
spandex can possibly be.
Having clocked up 1000km’s on the second day of the journey,
a day after Chen passed ten times that distance, Nelson decided he wasn’t
getting enough attention and ran a slow puncture on what had become a torrid
stretch of tarmac which the 15-seater taxis with a capacity of thirty-three
were neglecting in favour of the gravel tracks bordering the road, often on the
wrong side – Kenyan driving licenses are rumoured to be the third highest
selling commodity behind Tusker beer and goat meat. Despite a series of stops
to blow up the tube, the slow puncture got less slow and forced us to pull over
15 kilometres short of our destination in the afternoon rain having made
cycling as difficult as running in mud while piggy-backing your grandmother.
My rear tyre was as impossibly difficult to remove from the
wheel as the front one had been a few weeks before. With the help of - slash
thanks to the sole effort of – Jim, the tyre was stripped off and the tube
replaced with the tube that was the victim of my first flat and which I had
repaired in Karichota. Both back at home and when I arrived I was questioned
and ridiculed for my lack of preparation; rightly so it seems as my first ever
attempt at repairing a tube turned out to be a miserable failure. To pile on
the misery, we only realised my ineptitude once Jim had put the bastard wheel
back on, forcing us – well, Jim – to repeat the entire exhausting and
frustrating process while Chen filmed the agony and I put on my best face of
concern. After eventually getting Nelson on the road, an effort that has left
me insurmountably indebted to Jim, we reached a small town 6km short of our
intended destination where we had to pull over in imminent darkness and find
the only hotel available so as to avoid setting up camp and cooking in the dark
and the rain.
After an extensive breakfast consisting of a glorious mixed
fry-up of tomato, onion, banana and baked beans on chipati cooked in full view
of the thundering Thompson Falls, we headed off on our final days ride into
Nakuru where we were to be kindly hosted by Bella, a friend of mine from
Kingswood - good school. After a short stint on a highway bypassing the busy
centre of Nakuru, we pushed our bikes up the dirt road that ran along Bella’s
boundary fence with all seven of their dogs barking wildly at us until we
reached the gate with a sign reading: “Beware. Puppies loose”.
Writing this on the stoep
– it feels good to use a South African word – of a guest cottage on Bella’s
tranquil and picturesque estate just outside Nakuru, home to an assortment of
geese, guinea fowls, chickens, cats and dogs, we once again find ourselves
surrounded by the unconditional kindness that this trip has thrived on since
Tom and Matt set off from England. On the topic of kindness, a dream I had on
the second night of our Nakuru leg reminded me about something I had not yet
mentioned in my seemingly endless pages of bullshit. In my rather absurd dream
I somehow managed to meet Eminem – it goes without saying that I played it cool
and called him Marshall. We got along famously – obviously - and in
conversation I subtly slipped in the fact that there was a charity based in
Cape Town which we hoped would benefit from any exposure our trip created –
almost as discreetly as I have just mentioned it here. Marshall ever so kindly
donated a million US Dollars to the cause.
Although I don’t want to discourage a donation of that
magnitude, it is by no means expected. Even if you decide to pass on the
unbelievable opportunity of donating money, a quick look at the cause on Tom
and Matt’s website and maybe a mention to the folks will – might – go a long
way to helping the cause. The donation page can be found
on the aptly named ‘Sponsor our Saddle Sores’ page (http://tomandmattcycle.com/sponsor-our-saddle-sores/)
with more information on the cause itself on http://tomandmattcycle.com/the-cause/
.
