journey day 10, 11
Day 10
Another day of extreme miracles.
Ok so my passport is missing. That is all I can think about. I will miss my plane for sure sitting in the Kenyan American Embassy all day. Oh god why this… I am so tired and now so depressed. I try on the thought of ‘maybe its for the best, its supposed to be this way, what is so bad about spending your birthday in Nairobi instead of with your boys? You can rest and write and… oh fuck it’ I’m bummed.
But as I start today’s ride nothing but beauty fills my eyes and mind. So alone, so wild. The track rises up a rocky cliff…. a sparkly rock cliff. It is hard to keep my footing hauling the weight of my bike, but it’s do-able and brings forth such great views. There are massive, dark forested hills rolling in every direction, the deep blue sky with stark white thunderheads rising out of the Great Rift.
I lose track of the trail several times, it just fades into the grass or gets lost in the rocks. Nevertheless in an hour or two I am in Mausa a beautiful lush farm manyatta with many bomas. I inquire about Olenkuo, the friend Daniel had sent me to find. He is a wise old Maasai just like Daniel. We talk, very roughly, through an interpreter that is hesitant and not at all clear. After discussing my intentions to proceed to Magadi and hearing again that it is impossible, we decide upon a plan. His son will guide me to the edge of the escarpment and point out the trail down the ‘big hill’. There are only a handful of paths leading down the shear walls of the escarpment cliffs, which runs the length of Kenya. It is so impressive. The Great Rift Valley is a very flat piece of ground that runs from Egypt to Tanzania. It is littered with salt lakes disappearing over time. The valley was formed by the continental plates separating and the land in between dropping, creating a huge flat gap with massive cliffs on either side…the escarpment.
I am pretty confident that I can make it down the ‘great hill’ because I have seen the trail from above on my back packing exploration and the Maasai bring cows up it … I remember Leyiens story. Olenkuo is pretty confident that I cannot. (I never expected to find what I did that day).
There are only three km left to the trailhead of the escarpment, the top of the descent, but the traveling is hard. I am completely drained physically and the heavy rain has made the creek crossings next to impossible. I slip in the slimy mud and have no footing. I can’t believe how heavy my bike feels…as if I am carrying two pygmies in my bags. Up, up, up just one more hill. So tired. Olenkuo II helps me by wearing my backpack.
There it is…. the way down! My heart sinks. It is so steep. In places it resembles bouldering routes in the Sierras, the kind you have to use both hands as well as your feet. This is not the road I viewed earlier, definitely not a cow trail. I should have known, I am two days ride South of the trail I had seen. This trail is three times as long, and three times as steep. The valley is at least ten km down. I plead with Olenkua to help me a bit longer. He carries my pack another quarter of a mile. I am thankful. The trail levels out a bit into a very steep road made of ‘way bigger than a bread box’ sized boulders. I strap on my pack and use both brakes to hold the bike back. I walk carefully over the rocks. I am worried about my ankles.
Thump, thump thump… poor ‘Hard Rock,’ the battering begins. By the end of the day every tube, deck, and bar will be dented, scraped and scratched.
Time drags on. There are moments I cry with exhaustion. For at least half the way I walk ahead with my bags, drop them off and go back for my bike to carry it over the boulders.
I see a dung beetle. She is pushing her dung ball up the trail. It falls, rolling backwards until a rock catches it. She rides with it, tumbling over and over, just to begin anew. I feel a kin to her. I am a dung beetle, tumbling down this massive hill in a continuous dance with my worldly processions.
Yet when I pause to breath, I see that it is the most beautiful landscape so far. Baboons peek at me from the sidelines, their bare butts on the granite rocks. I see their prints at every creek crossing; this trail is following a creek down. Butterflies, sweet butterflies, bringing with them the light… butterfly juju cheers me up. Butterflies in Kenya seem to travel in flocks, ultra blue and black ones, pretty yellow ones, soft corn blue ones, flashy swallowtails, all separate clans. Sparkling rocks, I am fascinated. I can’t help slipping a few in my pocket. What am I crazy? What do I need with more weight?!?! I find a porcupine quill and see thick forests full of elephant sign. What food I eat is extraordinarily delicious, my mouth waters over the tastiest orange ever… well except for the one in Maui on Xmas eve.
The shadows grow long as I near the bottom. I begin to ride my bike for short spurts. Oh how I love being in the saddle again. No weight I feel free, until a rocky draw stops the flow.
The trees are playing with me, they grab, poke, scratch and prick me. Some pull at my ‘money makers pump’ hat, ripping it even out of my tight-handed grip. I have run out of sunscreen, this baseball brimmed hat is all that is between the equator sun and me. One branch brushes up against the soft flesh of the underside of my arm leaving a long bloody cut, purple bruises, and thorns lodged deep inside. ‘Agh! You think that’s funny’ I yell. I am sooooo tired.
A HUMAN! I see a human. Two really, they are young Maasai boys, el morans, staring at me. They are dressed in amazing traditional garb. Headdress, necklace, bracelets, ochre dyed dreaded hair, sacred swords, each a true piece of artwork. They seem even more surprised than I am, meeting on this precarious mountain trail. We exchange greetings and just look at each other for a time.
The terrain slowly shows more and more sign of human inhabitance. The track widens into a road. Yes! I have made it to the next village in my map-list of landmarks.
Not so fast Cyndra you are not out of the woods quite yet. I get a sinking feeling when I ask people directions to Magadi and get repeated, definitely negative responses. One young man shakes his head and puts his hand under his chin with a strange faked desperate look on his face saying ‘magi, magi’. Magi means water in Swahili, the first words I learned were ‘Nataka magi’ which means ‘I want water.’ Sure enough, the road dead-ends. It just fades into a river and continues away on the other side… a river in flood. About twelve feet deep and forty feet wide.
Filthy, exhausted, cut, bruised and bleeding I sit down to contemplate. Ok, ok …I think I can swim it, yuck I hate to think what lurks in that brown mucky water. What about my stuff? I can’t swim with my bike over my head and my bag weighs over 75lbs. Oh, am I finally beat… no… I will build a raft… tomorrow. Tomorrow I will build a raft and float onward to Nairobi and my flight home.
Later that very same night:
What fate is this? I am eating CHOCOLATE mousse and beef borgenois with steamed carrots and string beans. Oh did I mention the spinage soup, liver pate and the sesame sprinkled cheese balls? My god I feel like I just fell off the edge of the world and ended up in another dimension. I am sleeping in clean cotton sheets in a queen size bed under a soft white mosquito net listening to the odd symphony of an African night, writing in my journal via solar powered bed lamp, and sipping the cold drink served to me on a bamboo platter. God the view is absolutely breathtaking. Sunset… peach colored hue touching the under bellies of giant thunderheads looming over the dark purple Shompole Mountain, the flat Rift Valley with the salty white shadow of lake Magadi spreading below. A hundred and eighty degrees of African beauty… I feel guilty just looking at it.
How did I get here? Well I’ll tell you. I was sitting near the river, trying to figure out a place to schlep my tent when a car drives up, a fancy safari rig from some Camp. My mouth drops open. I talk to the driver… he doesn’t speak English. I gather that there are mzungus at this lodge. ‘White people’ they will know what’s up concerning directions and…. they can tell me in English, hopefully. I throw my bike in the back and head towards the Shompole Lodge. Oh readers please look it up on the net “shompole.com”. Completely crazy place. Gourmet meals with crystal glasses and eight piece silverware settings. Beautiful women in super model silk dresses, chilled white wine and dainty fragrant beedee cigars from India.
The owners Elizabeth and Anthony happen to be here this weekend. They take pity on me and treat me to the night of my life. Elizabeth invites me to drive with her to Nairobi tomorrow afternoon. My room has an open air bathroom suit with a river of hot water pouring from the showerhead. White towels hang from the mirror and the Jacuzzi hot tub waits, warmed and ready near my bed. All the floors are polished white cement so clean you could eat off of them… I do yoga and smile deeply. The composting toilet is a throne and an incredibly designed heavy thatched roof covers the whole thing.
Oh I must tell you one more thing that counts as a separate miracle. As I am dumping out my backpack to find the least dirty clothes to wear after my very, very HOT shower, my passport falls to the ground! My heart jumps. I know, I know I should feel guilty because the loss of my passport played a major role in the sympathy hosting, but I rejoice knowing that indeed I will be coming home for Christmas… I mean my birthday!
Ya gotta love it.
Day 11
I sleep in soft cotton sheets spread out over a fluffy queen size bed behind shear white gauze completely protected from the flying malaria bestowers. Tucked safely away from the crazy hyenas hoots and genet cats screams that fill the night. I wake up scrubbed clean, smelling like lavender and white gardenias. I gaze out at the most delicate rose colored sunrise and sip cool clean water from the glass on the bed stand. A pair of dik dik pick their way through the flowers planted along my bungalow’s path.
After lazing around with a cup of tea and a soak in the hot tub I join the others for breakfast and a walk in the conservatory. Breakfast is a long table ladened with fruits, flowers, cheeses and Danishes. The eggs, sausage, sliced tomatoes, and fresh squeezed orange juice come later.
The walk starts out with a short drive past the airstrip and into the savanna. We pass the three kings on our way, three young male lions that Elizabeth has watched grow up here. Click, click, national geographic style photos from grandma’s tiny digital camera. A close up of a Maasai giraffe and four new foals in the zebra herd. We stop the truck and begin to walk across the field in knee high grass and low growing devil’s thorn. The fox terrier pups that are with us whimper and limp from the nasty thorns between their toes. We see hippo prints in the dust. Elizabeth looks like a high fashion model framed by Mount Shimpole, her silk skirt and hair blowing gently in the wind, a woman alone walking her dogs in the beautiful Serengeti wilderness.
It all seems like a dream. I get to experience the American dream of Africa as well as the real, rugged, wild, down to earth Africa. Unbelievable.
The drive to Nairobi is long flat and dry, I am glad I am in the truck. We pass lake Magadi and see the pink flamingos. The town of Magadi is a company town of the salt processing plant. The matatus do not come often, again I am grateful I am in the truck. The road up to Nairobi causes the truck to over heat but it is gradual and paved, and I imagine riding here would have been fun especially down, but again I am glad I am in the truck. My strength is gone and I have already left this beautiful crazy place called Africa. Thank you Elizabeth. Thank you my traveling angels.
In conclusion
I am grateful.
Thankful to be home, but more than that I am grateful to have had an experience like this one. Many times I felt blessed… and still do. So many things just happened in such a beautiful way that, I must admit, I believe I have an angel traveling with me. How else can I explain all the miracles that were bestowed upon me. The force opened up and held me safe for a spell.
Many people asked me if I ever felt like my life was in danger or I might not make it, or if I was ever scared. And truthfully I have to say no. My experience of Kenyan people in general is one of gentle, genuine, giving people. They were helpful, welcoming, charitable and friendly. It is true that everyone I met had hopes of receiving something from me, and I hope many of them did, but on the whole they treated me with great human respect. My experience of the African wildlife was also one of mutual respect. I knew that if the opportunity arose some of them would hurt or eat me, but there are rules one can follow that exclude, or at least curtail those opportunities. Unlike the bears of California the animals of Kenya seem to respect the barrier of my tent as off limits, even though they could smell me and my food inside. Walking or riding during the midday hours seems to lower the chance of accidental meetings which could lead to accidental goring, trampling or predator deaths. My trusty broken bell worked like my hiking songs do at home, a great warning system. The conscious effort not to leave the tent during the night reduced temptation and the strategically timed campfires served to announce that ‘man’ is here this day.
I’m standing by the kitchen sink watching the water run, letting it heat up for the dirty dishes. I think of Kenya and the differences between here and there. How precious water is. We ran out of water for five days at a time even in the ritzy suburbs of Nairobi, Teresia would scoop buckets of cholorine water from the pool for the toilets. Water sources are not well developed, the majority of residents gather rainwater off their roof. I can't imagine what it is like during the dry season. I remember how grateful I felt when my host could bring me a pan of water warmed by a cooking fire or paraffin stove to bathe with. Showers are not the norm in Kenya, especially hot ones. All clothes are washed by hand sparingly with second hand water.
I have mixed feelings about our way and their way of life. I wish Kenya could skip over all our mistakes and wrong routes and just achieve the good progress we have made…. cleaner-air cars, less polluted rivers, rich food production, clean drinking water, refuge recycling and clean up, wide spread health. While keeping the amazing achievements they live everyday, public transportation, trail and track systems for foot and bike traffic, organically grown food and no fence livestock care, widespread physical fitness, roadless populated areas, conscious water conservation, well established traditions and rituals, clear structure for the elderly and death.
Thank you Ed for lending me your camel back, but more importantly thank you for supporting me in my bike endeavor, your words and reading about your past adventures inspired me and gave me courage to go for it.
Thank you Amsterdam bikes…. not one flat!!! And the bottle became indispensable too.
Thank you Kim for just giving me the xtracycle …it has a good home now.
Thank you Shawn and Davin for staying up late and shoving your own lives aside to piece together the African Fankenbike.
Thank you Lida for filling my head with African backpacking stories and possibilities.
Thank you KC for riding with me on many of my previous adventures, your similar roughin-it, starvation style helped me to realize I am not alone in my perspective and tolerance.
Big thanks to my sis Jeannette for taking care of me in multiple ways I can see better, I have some photos, I was dressed appropriately, I ate the last few weeks, I rested knowing ma and pa were in good hands, and well, I went…thanks for making it possible.
I am grateful.
Another day of extreme miracles.
Ok so my passport is missing. That is all I can think about. I will miss my plane for sure sitting in the Kenyan American Embassy all day. Oh god why this… I am so tired and now so depressed. I try on the thought of ‘maybe its for the best, its supposed to be this way, what is so bad about spending your birthday in Nairobi instead of with your boys? You can rest and write and… oh fuck it’ I’m bummed.
But as I start today’s ride nothing but beauty fills my eyes and mind. So alone, so wild. The track rises up a rocky cliff…. a sparkly rock cliff. It is hard to keep my footing hauling the weight of my bike, but it’s do-able and brings forth such great views. There are massive, dark forested hills rolling in every direction, the deep blue sky with stark white thunderheads rising out of the Great Rift.
I lose track of the trail several times, it just fades into the grass or gets lost in the rocks. Nevertheless in an hour or two I am in Mausa a beautiful lush farm manyatta with many bomas. I inquire about Olenkuo, the friend Daniel had sent me to find. He is a wise old Maasai just like Daniel. We talk, very roughly, through an interpreter that is hesitant and not at all clear. After discussing my intentions to proceed to Magadi and hearing again that it is impossible, we decide upon a plan. His son will guide me to the edge of the escarpment and point out the trail down the ‘big hill’. There are only a handful of paths leading down the shear walls of the escarpment cliffs, which runs the length of Kenya. It is so impressive. The Great Rift Valley is a very flat piece of ground that runs from Egypt to Tanzania. It is littered with salt lakes disappearing over time. The valley was formed by the continental plates separating and the land in between dropping, creating a huge flat gap with massive cliffs on either side…the escarpment.
I am pretty confident that I can make it down the ‘great hill’ because I have seen the trail from above on my back packing exploration and the Maasai bring cows up it … I remember Leyiens story. Olenkuo is pretty confident that I cannot. (I never expected to find what I did that day).
There are only three km left to the trailhead of the escarpment, the top of the descent, but the traveling is hard. I am completely drained physically and the heavy rain has made the creek crossings next to impossible. I slip in the slimy mud and have no footing. I can’t believe how heavy my bike feels…as if I am carrying two pygmies in my bags. Up, up, up just one more hill. So tired. Olenkuo II helps me by wearing my backpack.
There it is…. the way down! My heart sinks. It is so steep. In places it resembles bouldering routes in the Sierras, the kind you have to use both hands as well as your feet. This is not the road I viewed earlier, definitely not a cow trail. I should have known, I am two days ride South of the trail I had seen. This trail is three times as long, and three times as steep. The valley is at least ten km down. I plead with Olenkua to help me a bit longer. He carries my pack another quarter of a mile. I am thankful. The trail levels out a bit into a very steep road made of ‘way bigger than a bread box’ sized boulders. I strap on my pack and use both brakes to hold the bike back. I walk carefully over the rocks. I am worried about my ankles.
Thump, thump thump… poor ‘Hard Rock,’ the battering begins. By the end of the day every tube, deck, and bar will be dented, scraped and scratched.
Time drags on. There are moments I cry with exhaustion. For at least half the way I walk ahead with my bags, drop them off and go back for my bike to carry it over the boulders.
I see a dung beetle. She is pushing her dung ball up the trail. It falls, rolling backwards until a rock catches it. She rides with it, tumbling over and over, just to begin anew. I feel a kin to her. I am a dung beetle, tumbling down this massive hill in a continuous dance with my worldly processions.
Yet when I pause to breath, I see that it is the most beautiful landscape so far. Baboons peek at me from the sidelines, their bare butts on the granite rocks. I see their prints at every creek crossing; this trail is following a creek down. Butterflies, sweet butterflies, bringing with them the light… butterfly juju cheers me up. Butterflies in Kenya seem to travel in flocks, ultra blue and black ones, pretty yellow ones, soft corn blue ones, flashy swallowtails, all separate clans. Sparkling rocks, I am fascinated. I can’t help slipping a few in my pocket. What am I crazy? What do I need with more weight?!?! I find a porcupine quill and see thick forests full of elephant sign. What food I eat is extraordinarily delicious, my mouth waters over the tastiest orange ever… well except for the one in Maui on Xmas eve.
The shadows grow long as I near the bottom. I begin to ride my bike for short spurts. Oh how I love being in the saddle again. No weight I feel free, until a rocky draw stops the flow.
The trees are playing with me, they grab, poke, scratch and prick me. Some pull at my ‘money makers pump’ hat, ripping it even out of my tight-handed grip. I have run out of sunscreen, this baseball brimmed hat is all that is between the equator sun and me. One branch brushes up against the soft flesh of the underside of my arm leaving a long bloody cut, purple bruises, and thorns lodged deep inside. ‘Agh! You think that’s funny’ I yell. I am sooooo tired.
A HUMAN! I see a human. Two really, they are young Maasai boys, el morans, staring at me. They are dressed in amazing traditional garb. Headdress, necklace, bracelets, ochre dyed dreaded hair, sacred swords, each a true piece of artwork. They seem even more surprised than I am, meeting on this precarious mountain trail. We exchange greetings and just look at each other for a time.
The terrain slowly shows more and more sign of human inhabitance. The track widens into a road. Yes! I have made it to the next village in my map-list of landmarks.
Not so fast Cyndra you are not out of the woods quite yet. I get a sinking feeling when I ask people directions to Magadi and get repeated, definitely negative responses. One young man shakes his head and puts his hand under his chin with a strange faked desperate look on his face saying ‘magi, magi’. Magi means water in Swahili, the first words I learned were ‘Nataka magi’ which means ‘I want water.’ Sure enough, the road dead-ends. It just fades into a river and continues away on the other side… a river in flood. About twelve feet deep and forty feet wide.
Filthy, exhausted, cut, bruised and bleeding I sit down to contemplate. Ok, ok …I think I can swim it, yuck I hate to think what lurks in that brown mucky water. What about my stuff? I can’t swim with my bike over my head and my bag weighs over 75lbs. Oh, am I finally beat… no… I will build a raft… tomorrow. Tomorrow I will build a raft and float onward to Nairobi and my flight home.
Later that very same night:
What fate is this? I am eating CHOCOLATE mousse and beef borgenois with steamed carrots and string beans. Oh did I mention the spinage soup, liver pate and the sesame sprinkled cheese balls? My god I feel like I just fell off the edge of the world and ended up in another dimension. I am sleeping in clean cotton sheets in a queen size bed under a soft white mosquito net listening to the odd symphony of an African night, writing in my journal via solar powered bed lamp, and sipping the cold drink served to me on a bamboo platter. God the view is absolutely breathtaking. Sunset… peach colored hue touching the under bellies of giant thunderheads looming over the dark purple Shompole Mountain, the flat Rift Valley with the salty white shadow of lake Magadi spreading below. A hundred and eighty degrees of African beauty… I feel guilty just looking at it.
How did I get here? Well I’ll tell you. I was sitting near the river, trying to figure out a place to schlep my tent when a car drives up, a fancy safari rig from some Camp. My mouth drops open. I talk to the driver… he doesn’t speak English. I gather that there are mzungus at this lodge. ‘White people’ they will know what’s up concerning directions and…. they can tell me in English, hopefully. I throw my bike in the back and head towards the Shompole Lodge. Oh readers please look it up on the net “shompole.com”. Completely crazy place. Gourmet meals with crystal glasses and eight piece silverware settings. Beautiful women in super model silk dresses, chilled white wine and dainty fragrant beedee cigars from India.
The owners Elizabeth and Anthony happen to be here this weekend. They take pity on me and treat me to the night of my life. Elizabeth invites me to drive with her to Nairobi tomorrow afternoon. My room has an open air bathroom suit with a river of hot water pouring from the showerhead. White towels hang from the mirror and the Jacuzzi hot tub waits, warmed and ready near my bed. All the floors are polished white cement so clean you could eat off of them… I do yoga and smile deeply. The composting toilet is a throne and an incredibly designed heavy thatched roof covers the whole thing.
Oh I must tell you one more thing that counts as a separate miracle. As I am dumping out my backpack to find the least dirty clothes to wear after my very, very HOT shower, my passport falls to the ground! My heart jumps. I know, I know I should feel guilty because the loss of my passport played a major role in the sympathy hosting, but I rejoice knowing that indeed I will be coming home for Christmas… I mean my birthday!
Ya gotta love it.
Day 11
I sleep in soft cotton sheets spread out over a fluffy queen size bed behind shear white gauze completely protected from the flying malaria bestowers. Tucked safely away from the crazy hyenas hoots and genet cats screams that fill the night. I wake up scrubbed clean, smelling like lavender and white gardenias. I gaze out at the most delicate rose colored sunrise and sip cool clean water from the glass on the bed stand. A pair of dik dik pick their way through the flowers planted along my bungalow’s path.
After lazing around with a cup of tea and a soak in the hot tub I join the others for breakfast and a walk in the conservatory. Breakfast is a long table ladened with fruits, flowers, cheeses and Danishes. The eggs, sausage, sliced tomatoes, and fresh squeezed orange juice come later.
The walk starts out with a short drive past the airstrip and into the savanna. We pass the three kings on our way, three young male lions that Elizabeth has watched grow up here. Click, click, national geographic style photos from grandma’s tiny digital camera. A close up of a Maasai giraffe and four new foals in the zebra herd. We stop the truck and begin to walk across the field in knee high grass and low growing devil’s thorn. The fox terrier pups that are with us whimper and limp from the nasty thorns between their toes. We see hippo prints in the dust. Elizabeth looks like a high fashion model framed by Mount Shimpole, her silk skirt and hair blowing gently in the wind, a woman alone walking her dogs in the beautiful Serengeti wilderness.
It all seems like a dream. I get to experience the American dream of Africa as well as the real, rugged, wild, down to earth Africa. Unbelievable.
The drive to Nairobi is long flat and dry, I am glad I am in the truck. We pass lake Magadi and see the pink flamingos. The town of Magadi is a company town of the salt processing plant. The matatus do not come often, again I am grateful I am in the truck. The road up to Nairobi causes the truck to over heat but it is gradual and paved, and I imagine riding here would have been fun especially down, but again I am glad I am in the truck. My strength is gone and I have already left this beautiful crazy place called Africa. Thank you Elizabeth. Thank you my traveling angels.
In conclusion
I am grateful.
Thankful to be home, but more than that I am grateful to have had an experience like this one. Many times I felt blessed… and still do. So many things just happened in such a beautiful way that, I must admit, I believe I have an angel traveling with me. How else can I explain all the miracles that were bestowed upon me. The force opened up and held me safe for a spell.
Many people asked me if I ever felt like my life was in danger or I might not make it, or if I was ever scared. And truthfully I have to say no. My experience of Kenyan people in general is one of gentle, genuine, giving people. They were helpful, welcoming, charitable and friendly. It is true that everyone I met had hopes of receiving something from me, and I hope many of them did, but on the whole they treated me with great human respect. My experience of the African wildlife was also one of mutual respect. I knew that if the opportunity arose some of them would hurt or eat me, but there are rules one can follow that exclude, or at least curtail those opportunities. Unlike the bears of California the animals of Kenya seem to respect the barrier of my tent as off limits, even though they could smell me and my food inside. Walking or riding during the midday hours seems to lower the chance of accidental meetings which could lead to accidental goring, trampling or predator deaths. My trusty broken bell worked like my hiking songs do at home, a great warning system. The conscious effort not to leave the tent during the night reduced temptation and the strategically timed campfires served to announce that ‘man’ is here this day.
I’m standing by the kitchen sink watching the water run, letting it heat up for the dirty dishes. I think of Kenya and the differences between here and there. How precious water is. We ran out of water for five days at a time even in the ritzy suburbs of Nairobi, Teresia would scoop buckets of cholorine water from the pool for the toilets. Water sources are not well developed, the majority of residents gather rainwater off their roof. I can't imagine what it is like during the dry season. I remember how grateful I felt when my host could bring me a pan of water warmed by a cooking fire or paraffin stove to bathe with. Showers are not the norm in Kenya, especially hot ones. All clothes are washed by hand sparingly with second hand water.
I have mixed feelings about our way and their way of life. I wish Kenya could skip over all our mistakes and wrong routes and just achieve the good progress we have made…. cleaner-air cars, less polluted rivers, rich food production, clean drinking water, refuge recycling and clean up, wide spread health. While keeping the amazing achievements they live everyday, public transportation, trail and track systems for foot and bike traffic, organically grown food and no fence livestock care, widespread physical fitness, roadless populated areas, conscious water conservation, well established traditions and rituals, clear structure for the elderly and death.
Thank you Ed for lending me your camel back, but more importantly thank you for supporting me in my bike endeavor, your words and reading about your past adventures inspired me and gave me courage to go for it.
Thank you Amsterdam bikes…. not one flat!!! And the bottle became indispensable too.
Thank you Kim for just giving me the xtracycle …it has a good home now.
Thank you Shawn and Davin for staying up late and shoving your own lives aside to piece together the African Fankenbike.
Thank you Lida for filling my head with African backpacking stories and possibilities.
Thank you KC for riding with me on many of my previous adventures, your similar roughin-it, starvation style helped me to realize I am not alone in my perspective and tolerance.
Big thanks to my sis Jeannette for taking care of me in multiple ways I can see better, I have some photos, I was dressed appropriately, I ate the last few weeks, I rested knowing ma and pa were in good hands, and well, I went…thanks for making it possible.
I am grateful.
posted by gypsysista at 11:01 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home