journey day 1,2,3

A ride across Kenya

I am a woman and I want to ride my bicycle across Kenya. I am forty eight, white, an artist and mother of four beautiful young men. On this journey I will be traveling alone. People just shake their heads and try to talk some sense into me. I am not sure of my route, but I know I want to see the Serengeti, the Maasai Mara. I begin my journey in Kisumu, a small city on the western side of Kenya and the eastern side of Lake Victoria, where I have been helping with a nonprofit bike project. I don’t know if I will succeed in making it all the way to Nairobi, but I will try.
My bike is an old specialized 'hard rock' I bought off Craig’s list for forty five dollars, and I have already replaced the tires and tubes, the front sprocket, the front wheel bearings and the bottom bracket. The tubes are heaviest fatty tubes I have ever seen, donated to me by my only sponsor, Amsterdam Bicycles in Santa Cruz. Oh, except for my sweet sis who donated a nearly new xtracycle, and two very cute bike mechanics who primped, preened and transformed an ordinary mountain bike into the ‘Almighty African explorer’. Thank you Kim, Shawn, Davin and Amsterdam Bikes!!, The tires have stubby mountain bike tread, miss-matched front and back, one bought in Nairobi and one in Kisumu. Mountain bikes don't really exist in Kenya yet and it is hard to find any parts, in this case 26 inch tires. The frame is a good size for me and the seat is comfortable while a bit bulky and worn out. I have attached the used xtracycle on the back and I am carrying 35 kilos in provisions, including camping gear, food, water and spare bike parts.
I have been in Kenya for almost six weeks. I have lived in Nairobi with friends, climbed Mount Kenya, traveled to Mombassa along the east coast and the source of the Nile, Ginja Uganda. I worked in Kisumu with my friends on the world bike project and now I want to see the rest of Kenya.
I choose cycling because I like experiencing a place via bicycle. I can hear the birds, feel the rain and smell the flowers as well as the decaying carcasses.
I have had a hard time finding dried or dehydrated food that will not spoil, I have settled for some top-ramin, over dry gristle jerky, salted banana chips and some canned fish. My water capacity is three liters, with iodine tablets.
My map is the freytag & berndtersion of Kenya Tanzania and Uganda. It is too big, but I have searched in vain for a more localized detailed one. What's up with that google earth??!? I have no compass but I do have a small digital camera and binoculars. I do not speak Kiswahili but I am bringing a phrase book
I begin tomorrow.



Day 1

I finally say good bye to the hours, the days of preparation and waiting. I say kua heri to my friends in Kisumu. I kiss the girls cheeks and hug John in front of the Mamba hotel. I ride through the busy city, the busy market, the busy streets not knowing what to expect, just knowing that I am going. My only experience with the road ahead was the bumping grueling bus ride from Nairobi, which wasn’t much since I had been too sick to look out the window.
I pedal down the main Nairobi road, alongside it really, on a path well worn by the feet of many pedestrians and the wheels of plenty of boda bikes. It is hot but not too hot. There are no hills. I am joined by other bike riders now and again, they are all men. I begin to hear the mantra they will recite to me my whole trip, ‘It is too far’. I keep my cadence for about five hours, interrupted only once by a shiny silver SUV, Hosea the missionary. He had called me a few weeks earlier, while I was in Nairobi. Hosea does his work in Kisumu, he had seen Phanice riding my bike there. He was intrigued by the Xtracycle work horse feature and called to see if I would sell it to him. Right now he stopped because of the bike not me, but we have a nice conversation and he wished me a safe journey…. a wish I become very familiar with.
I ride the day light away and stop just after a town called Katito. The thunder has begun and the wind. The wind is mighty before the daily storm. The ground is still flat and I think… I could camp just about anywhere. I ask and like always in Kenya I am granted. I camp on a millet and maze farm with the Obura family. Joseph, Isaac, Phillip, Milisant, Elizabeth, Maurice, Richard, Matheus and Little George… otherwise known as El Niño for his stormy eyes and moody character. All but Milisant live on the 400 acre farm. Their Father and Mother having the most established homesite.
I stay with Phillip, his wife Caroline and their two boys Bruno and Runi. The baby Runi is sick with the malaria. I sit in their two roomed house made of pole construction, metal roof and cow dung plaster walls. I sip a stiff cup of tea with the men of the family, Joseph, Phillip and Richard. The woman prepare and serve but do not join us. Being a British colony everyone in Kenya prepares the same cup of tea they call chai. It has strong black Kenyan tea, boiled milk and two heaping teaspoons of sugar, sometimes they add a spice called masala.

Joseph the oldest is a ‘fundi’ which, in this case, means carpenter. A bike ‘fundi’ repairs bikes, metal ‘fundi’ welds, but a ‘fundi’ just builds things. He proudly shares that he built his home in one day. The windows are glass covered with metal grates like all windows in Kenya, and there are old calendars high up on the walls, well above eye level.
Joseph is overwhelmed with the hope of sponsorship from a muzungu…. me in this case. It’s as if somewhere in the Kenyan social guide it is written that you must attain a mzungu ‘contact’ before anything miraculous can happen to you. He leans close to me and tells me of the hardships and problems his family endures. The crop is only grown once a year for six months, because of the rain. The drought hit them hard. He must find work the other six months. He went to welding school but could not finish, He wants to learn to drive but the cost is too much. He wants to be trained as car ‘fundi’ but that means leaving his family and moving to Nairobi. He relates a story about his neighbor who went away to Italy and returned with much money, this neighbor even took his mother to live in Italy. For some reason he thinks I come from the UK, it doesn’t really matter where I come from it is just out of Kenya to him. His efforts annoy me.
I ask ‘is your neighbor’s mother happy there?’ He looks at me confused. I try to tell him that his life here is rich. He has work as a farmer and carpenter, a sturdy home and his family all around; plus the land is beautiful and the school is not far. I annoy him.
I ask Caroline to join us. ‘Aren’t you going to join us?” Phillip looks at me for understanding, then trying to appease my every desire, indicates her to join us. She sits and nervously smiles. She gulps a cup of tea, and then disappears into the kitchen. The kitchen is a separate building with a one hole charcoal burning, stove for cooking, this kitchen alternates as a barn to keep the chickens and goats safe at night. I learn not to rock the boat where woman are concerned…. well maybe I learn.
“If god desires we will keep in contact and you will help me get to the UK.” Joseph says over and over. I feel like I am only dollar signs to his eyes. They ask me nothing about my home or my travels, what I have seen or what I think. Kenya has her hand out asking to receive. The children are taught to ask any mzungu for sustenance. “anything” they say “ anything you can give me will help” I want to tell them what I have seen as a traveler, my observations. Kenya has a poison spreading through her…. and I don’t mean AIDS… greed and envy. It touches the hearts of many. "Wrath is cruel, and anger is outrageous; but who is able to stand before envy?" Proverbs 29:4
I try to understand. Joseph is the oldest, he feels responsible for the welfare of his family and the next generation. His father has provided for so many, he has given land to his children and their families. The father, Drismas, works all night as a security guard, and takes his machete and the grand boys into the fields in the morning. Security has to be the number one industry following tourism here.
The mother Mary, is in her early fifties. She has nine children. Her youngest, George is about eight years old and her eldest is thirty four. Her daughter Elizabeth is twenty two and has a year old baby. Elizabeth is not married and lives with her parents. She is well educated and bright, she dreams of becoming a nurse.
I spend the night cozy in my tent. Before I leave I give them my ‘contact’ and three hundred schillings. They seem pacified as if they have accomplished what they needed to, although what they have accomplished is still a bit confusing to them. Perhaps it is the beginning of the road to the garden of edan, paradise, the promise land, all their hopes, dreams and desires can now be had….. god willing.
I want to tell them that Kenya must help herself. The businesses and economy must thrive from with in. She is like an adolescent child wanting the keys to the car, another few bucks for the movies, a season ski pass.



Day 2

HILLS! A whole day of up hills. The first one is into Sondu. I thought wow up hill changes things, glad that’s over. But oh no, the biggest one leads out of Sondu and winds up, up, and up. I am escorted by a bicyclist delivering milk and millet in old reused gerry cans. We rarely talk but I gather info gradually. He rides… or rather pushes his bike up this hill everyday, fills his buckets then returns, delivering on the way. We share peanuts and he asks me to take his photo. We laugh at the results, Kenyans love to see their images in the screen, an unusual experience I suppose. We summit at Sigowet I stop for a coke, baridi, I really want chocolate but none is to be found for the duration of my trip, no 'baridi' coke either, most fridges are just cubbards. He moves on with a sad look. I feel sad, I miss his company… I should have offered him a coke.
The girl in the shop is thrilled. She sits by me and laughs at every word I say. Her head falls onto my shoulder, she is laughing, gitty, nervous, thrilled. Biggest thing to happen in her day or maybe her month.
I ride through the most beautiful mountain farmlands, tea, maze, pineapple. Richness, beautiful homesteads, lush growth. Green hedges, paths running up and down the hill through the fields, no roads, no driveways. There are no fences, the animals are attended by shepards, usually young boys. They graze near the road and crops keeping the grass short, everything looks trimmed and clean.
My bike bell is broken. It rings constantly over every little bump. I feel bad The ring of a bike bell in Kenya, like the honk of a car horn, means 'GET OUT OF THE WAY', and I send many an old lady jumping to the side unnecessarily.
The day wears on and my destination eludes me, it starts to rain. I have brought large garbage bags to put over my backpack and tent, I have raincoat and pants but opt not to wear them because, for one I am already wet and two it is too hot, I am working hard, pedaling up hill. Too many hills, too slow, not enough strength. I make it to the cross roads near Letein, 30km short of planned destination, Sotik. I have only traveled 64Km today.
It is 4:30, I stop for food. It is always crazy when I come to a ‘town’. There are always people milling about everywhere, and garbage strewn all over. I can tell I’m coming to a ‘center’ when plastic bags and bottles start to line the road. Lean-to sheds housing everything from nik-naks to food items line both sides of the street. There is a matatu or bus stop in the middle of it all. There is always a kind of tense madness surrounding the matatus, a frenzy. I push my bike through the mud to a ‘hotel’ which means restaurant here. Everyone’s eyes are on me from the time I arrive in such places until the time I leave.
After being approached by several people stepping over each other to attend to me, I relate my desires, food and camping. The room is cozy and warm when I sit down I realize how tired and cold I am. Chai is always ready and hot in places like these, Kenyan tea boiled with milk, I drink cup after cup as I wait for my eggs and chapatis. Concerned looks over the camping request. Perhaps the school… ah but, no one is there for it is Easter break. Where will there be a secure place? I have brought a problem with this question.
The young waitress that is serving me invites me to stay at her home. I agree and there is a great relief of tension. She looks proud and everyone smiles. A line of people come to see the mzungu. Conversation with different citizens that speak English. One ‘cousin’ wants her photo taken, they all line up along the wall…. as many as can fit. I am nervous that my camera will not work, it uses AA batteries and they are almost depleted. I have tried to buy batteries here but they don’t seem to have enough juice to run it at all. Is it possible that the batteries sold here are of lesser quality than ours?


After food I am lead to her home, a 12’ X12’ cement walled room. There is an enclosed toilet stall in a separate building around the corner. Water is heated on a paraffin burning stove for me to wash with. The coffee table is stacked onto the single cabinet and an extra mattress is placed on the floor, I get the couch. Five of us sleep safe that night, with my bike also inside, Betty, her sister, her lover, a friend, and me. Now I know why there are always so many people milling about, homes have just enough room for sleep.



Day 3

Letein then Sotik pass by. The upgrades mellow out. I ride all day through farm country the view sometimes opening to show the plains below. The Maasai Mara. I thank goodness for every descent. I get intense stares from the young men on bikes, no women ride here. I ask a man why and he answers ‘because it is serious… it is a business’. Yea, so, ‘why don’t more girls ride?’ I ask again. He shakes his head as if I didn’t understand his English.
I pass a group of young men and get some pretty serious mean looks. For the first time I am a little nervous. They follow me. Up hills they struggle to ride their turn of the century bikes at all, while I ride and carry 35kilos (about 75lbs…I have to get a lighter tent) behind me. Down hills they pass me in triumph. This goes on for half the day. Visions of an isolated ambush cross my mind. They begin to peel off at different cross roads, one is stickier than the rest, he still shows up around every turn.
Then I pick up a real threat. At first I thought he was the village idiot, which he may be, but soon realize he is drunker than a skunk. Sorry skunks…. what’s up with that, I know skunks don’t drink.
Excited, freaky, my new admirer follows me up the hill….damn this hill…why such a steep one, I am pushing my bike. Closer and closer he gets with his wild hand gestures and slurred words. I hear him summoning every word of English that he can muster. He is trying to get a reaction from me, I am trying to ignore him. Finally he begins to touch me, I say firmly and loudly ‘go home!’. He stops, he looks confused, he points down the hill ‘home down dare’. I say 'Yes GO HOME' still pushing hurriedly. I wonder how am I going to get out of this one. That’s when I notice my ‘mean staring’ bicycler, he stands in the road. He looks into my eyes, a message is passed. He engages is a short conversation with ‘senior loco’ and the threat passes. My adversary becomes my hero.
As the afternoon rains approach my destination is, again, unobtainable. I must find shelter. I have traveled 78Km today.


I must find shelter. I ask fellow road mates for possible camping spots, they point and say ‘center’. That is what people here call anything remotely resembling a town square, in this case a church with a fruit stand shed on the roadside. I consider a homestead of Maasai huts, circular earthen buildings with thatched roofs, smoke rising straight through the thatch. The practice of cooking inside the hut, with a charcoal jiko, smokes the mosquitoes out for the night. I would like to stay in one sometime…. not in the stars for this night.
I ask again, a middle aged man whose gaunt face reveals every curve of his skull. ‘I am Johnston, I am the pastor of this church, perhaps you can stay here.’ He pronounces it John Stone, but when he writes it down for me it is Johnston. The church stands on a hill side behind a rock wall, it is surrounded by short green grass, ‘yes I would like that.’ He begins to lead me down the muddy boulder strewn road, we are met by a young boy. ‘You are being summons’ Johnston tells me. I raise my eyebrows...‘Invited’ he corrects. The boy leads us to a wooden milling shed, there sits my real host, Joshua. He is a very large., old man with torn open ear lobes and his lower front teeth missing in traditional Maasai fashion but otherwise dressed in western clothes. He introduces himself as a Kalenjin. The men’s clothes here are usually dress shirts with ties and suit jackets much worn, threadbare to be honest. I notice most men’s ties have white worn lines on the creases, as if they are never untied just loosened and then re-worn the next day. The fashions reflect downtown Oakland in the early sixties, I remember holding my fathers hand while walking through SF and seeing the same felt derbies and shiny penny loafers.
I am directed to an empty wooden chair, a handmade willow branch type. There are many children of all ages. Curled up in the sawdust at Joshua’s feet is a striped cat, an unusual sight here in Kenya. There is also a lean shepherd like dog, a much more common sight. My host and I speak through Johnston the interrupter. We run through the usual while chai is being prepared. Where am I from, where am I going, what country do I live in, so on and so on. The view from the shed is stunning. Green rolling farmland spilling into the plains…. the Maasai Mara, almost within grip. As the evening turns, animals pass by us in herds headed to their night quarters, young boys attending their chores. When the chai comes the children are dismissed, but they still peer at me through the slits in the barn siding. Some women come and go with the tray of tea, carefully stepping over fresh cow pies. They do not join us. Finally it is time to secure my night quarters. We begin as a procession down, then up the hillside. My bike is heavy, like it always is at the end of the day.
The house we come to is a huge western style ranch house, apparently built by missionaries from Arizona. I say I want to stay in my tent, but end up staying inside. The house has not been used for some time, it is not well kept. The windows are all blocked with forty year old curtains holding forty years of dust. The walls are bare except for the mold and pealing paint. Oh I take that back, there are photos of the late president Moi and some old calendars…. 2002 as I recall. This is very common I have found, bare walls with expired calendars and presidential photos, although usually they are of the current president. Johnston has informed me that Joshua has close ties to the ex president Moi, for he is a Kalenjin also. I shutter at my memories of the things I read about old President Moi.
I am wet from the rain, Johnston shows me to the wash room. My bike is placed in a locked fourier. Everything is filthy, there is a toilet, but no toilet seat, also very common. The shower is above the toilet, there is a drain in the floor, which runs directly through the wall to the grass out side. The hot water hasn’t worked in years. Johnston starts a fire in the kitchen fireplace and hangs a cast iron pot of water above it. Water is collected from the rain runoff from the roofs, I am glad I am here during rainy season, otherwise there would not be enough water to clean with. I gingerly use the warm water he brings in a basin and wash myself…. thank goodness for my flip flops. I wash some clothes by headlamp as well. Passing by in the hallway I hear a surprised huh!?! Headlamps are not common.
Then there is a sputtering and electric lights….generator. Joshua has been waiting in the living room for me. I am uncomfortable around him, he has an ominous presense. I have learned that he has four wives and … well I never figured out how many children and grand children, they are not important enough to be introduced to me. His farm is a little over 800 hectors, which is roughly 1600 acres.
We sit in silence, Johnston is attending to dinner at some other location. Joshua shows me a hymnbook with English titles and Kiswahili verses. He points to ‘Oh come all ye faithful’ and then proceeds to sing. The empty room, the empty house is filled for a moment with a very plain male voice singing an almost monotone hymn. I squirm in my seat. When he is through he places the book on the coffee table, still looking forward. Silence again. I sit with my arms folded in my lap. Finally I begin to sing my version of 'Come all ye faithful', an old Christmas carol. Now he looks uncomfortable.
Finally Johnston and a little helper come with the food. The three of us sit around a table with a bare florescent bulb above us. I have informed them I am allergic to corn so that I may avoid eating ugali and scuma. I am served rice and fried eggs with their version of catsup. They are served ugali and scuma and eat it with their hands. Scuma means push in Swahili, the saying comes from ‘push the week’, scuma is a dark green leafy vegetable that when added to ugali pushes hunger away for the week.
After dinner we are visited by two young girls, they speak English, thank god. They are bright and beautiful, they invite me to the Easter sermon the next morning. We talk about Kenya, and my adventure… I feel happy. I am sorry to see them go.
I retire to my bedroom. Everything is filthy. There are cobwebs on the ceiling, the walls are discolored by time. The curtain is heavy with dirt. I remove the covers and put my cotton sheet down. My sleep is troubled by night mares, some about my dad and one about Matt, Davin and me bodysurfing in some huge maverick waves. What the hell are we going to do when we reach the bottom! Luckily dreams have a way of just ending without an ending. I am alone in the house with Joshua. I am nervous. He is a fat old man and shuffles down the hall several times during the night to the toilet. I hear the farts and grunts of old age, and thank god every time my door is left untouched.
By morning I am a wreck, all I can think of is getting on my bike. Breakfast is another long drawn out affair. I am asked how I slept several times. I finally spill the truth and we laugh uncomfortably. The girls join us with one of the eldest sons, who also speaks English. I now realize why they were chosen. Joshua talks about how god has brought us all here together, how it is His plan, how we should be thankful, on and on. Johnston faithfully interprets. They tell me that the bike project is admirable and could be gratefully utilized here in this valley where, thousands of hectors and hundreds of farms that are not accessible by cars… no roads just paths. Incredible. They tell me I could walk straight to the Mara from here in six hours on these paths. I ache to do just that.
I inform them that it is important for me to travel in the morning because of the afternoon rains, I decline participating in the sermon. They understand because the roads are dirt and become impassable to all vehicles every evening. In conclusion they choose a hymn and proceed to sing amazing gospel music in two-part harmony, right there at the table. Wow. I decide to see the sermon… just for a bit. What a pleasure. The acoustics in the small brick building are amazing. Everyone is rocking, it’s crazy the way it makes me feel. I ride away happy, renewed.