journey day 7,8,9

Day 7

So much to write about. Sunrise, two beautiful balloons float above a herd of tembo and the Mara river mist. The sky turns from dawn to early morning brightness. Another balloon rises from the Serena lodge, I wish I could ride that balloon. I hear the sound of the gas fire machine inside it, and see the flash of flame.
Today I head towards Narok.
My friends the birds getting louder. One balloon dips into the mist…. spying on hippos perhaps. My warthog buddies are back, they are very close and they are staring at me. Mama also has a bird friend on her shoulder. She sports a marvelously long mane that drapes across her shoulder. I am up wind, that makes them cautious but they continue to graze on grass. They are cautious animals, my guide says they are the favorite breakfast of the lions, leopards and cheetahs. Yum pork.
The two balloons are especially beautiful today dancing together, one up then the other, red and yellow highlighted against the green. The sunlight reflecting off one side, shadows on the other.
I have to admit I secretly hoped to see a lion or cheetah catch a pig in front of my eyes yesterday on my ‘game drive’. Horrid girl.
I sit on my zebra snap deck and spy on the world through my binoculars. It is kind of like watching TV ‘you control the view’ TV, discovery channel 3d. I watch a lone topi graze near an acacia tree. Funny thing about topi is that you rarely see them with their heads down, they are always watching. In the foreground is a beautiful yellow bird on a bush. In the background I see giraffes moving with their awkward gait… what fun mother nature had in Kenya. Something moves in the grass near the topi. I imagine it to be a lioness stalking, but it turns out to be more warthogs. I don’t know why they call the bumps on their faces warts, they are for too big to be warts. They say that the females have two ‘warts’ under her eyes and the males have four… two lower, near their snouts.
An elephant appears over a rise to my right and a small band of zebras brave the park. The herd animals tend to stick close to humans during this time of the year especially at night. They spend the night in the Maasai lands, in the hlls outside the park to escape the lion’s prowl.
Sammy, the game warden brings me a thermos of tea and we talk about the park in the early morning quiet. Lions rarely go out of the park, a Maasai cow is killed maybe once every ten years or so. During hard times the conservators of the park feed the lions deep inside, near one of the safari camps. They kill some of the resident wildebeests, not the buffalo or topi, just the crazy expendable wildebeests. Wildebeest have an amazing ability to reproduce and in July they migrate into the park by the millions. While the other animals suffer the wildebeests seem hardly annoyed. They have their babies in Tanzania on the Serengeti where it is flat and they can spot predators easily. Then they come here when the grass gets too dry. In hard times it is the lions that are most vulnerable, they die more easily. The park rangers don’t worry about the leopards and cheetahs they can take care of themselves. The cheetah hunts with speed and the leopards have superb lone stalking abilities. Lions hunt in teams and depend on ambushes. Here in the park the lions are taken care of and they seem to obey the park rules, they rarely leave the park boundaries. When they do they are killed by ranchers. The Maasai have a rights of passage ritual which involves young men killing a lion with their spear. Perhaps a new instinct has been born among the king of beasts, to be passed down to new generations.
The cheetah’s favorite food is the thompson gazelle, the leopard likes warthog and all the other antelope and gazelle. There was an eight year old boy that was snatched by a leopard out of one of the safari camps while walking outside his tent at night. Sammy look surprised when I mentioned this after he had told me that the Mara boosts no human deaths. I had heard about it from Liz who knew a fellow student of the poor boy, who was indeed killed and eaten... although it was in Tanzania, there had been no mention of it in the news paper. Sammy quickly informed me that he thinks he was rescued.
I must leave before noon. I am sluggish, loving this camp so much. For the first hour I ride alongside the mighty, muddy, Mara river, all set about by fever trees. I study each rapid, I could kayak this river, and oh what amazing sights I would see. Too bad it is full of hippos and crocodiles. I guess it would teach me not to swim!?!? Sammy says that the crocs feed on any animal that comes to drink. He has seen them catch food many times, wildebeests of course but also young giraffes and even baby elephants. I think about Rudyard Kipling’s story the Elephant’s Child. Now I understand the African people’s inherent fear of the water.
After climbing a steep rocky hill I am on a huge green mesa. There will not be many days in my life that I spend pedaling through herds of wildebeests and zebras, gazelles and impalas! Hour after hour I move through what I have deemed the game plateau. Every herbivore is here elands, topi a giant herd of buffalo and even the ostrich, I ride off the road to get close to the largest bird on earth. I come so close to everything, incredible.
The only draw back is THE MUD. It is black sticky, slippery clay that clogs up my bike. Going is slow and there is no way around some of the immense puddles. I slip and I am covered head to toe with the black goop, and of course so is everything I own. I discover that it is easily washed off with the semi clear water of the grass puddles. I proceed to undress and rinse my clothes, no one in sight for miles….oops…. a safari client plane flies directly over me, oh well, another sight in the wild African landscape.
I have to clean my bike several times, thank Amsterdam Bicycle shop for the extra water bottle, I use it exclusively for non potable wash water. But still damage is done. I loose my front shifter and the front brake become temporarily worthless, I adjust the back brakes almost daily. My bottom bracket starts to moan. I have a thought of regret for choosing the ‘hard rock,’ I have read personal web experiences expressing this as a hard rock weakness… fear of abandonment here in these remote hills. But alas we keep trudging on my faithful wounded steed and I.
This night I have a hard time finding a comfortable camp sight. There is sign of tembo everywhere and I am suspicious of the Maasai, I must find a camp sight out of their sight. That is one downside of spending days communing with nature, one gets negative feelings towards human kind. I see the Maasai as shepherds stealing their wealth from the wild animals. Why do they have to have so many cows and sheep? Everything is over grazed from the park boundaries on. The grass suffers and the trees are sparse, cut down for cooking fires and charcoal. The areas around the huts stink and the bones of butchered cows lie scattered on the roadside. The Maasai children run towards me shouting the only English they retain ‘ give me, give me, give me treats’ I feel frustrated and sad. I try to talk with them... in vain. They laugh and run off. I don’t trust anyone… probably because I can’t communicate here. It is hard to find a place hidden from them, yet safe, so I camp on elephant dung and hope for the best.

Day 8

I slept well and when I look out of my tent I see a few impalas quietly walking through the bush. The elephants definitely made their presense known last night but luckily they were far enough away not to disturb my sleep much. It seems strange that I have gotten used to seeing the wild animals I have waited so long to meet.
Pretty uneventful riding through Maasai muck land, over-grazed pasture land. I’m hungry and tried, getting rundown. I couldn’t find food yesterday and had to rely on the food I had bought in Kisumu… raw top ramin and very very dry gristle, I mean beef jerky. I talk to no one even though there are some who obviously want to converse.
Finally I stop and ask a young man how far to Lemex, he says one kilometer. Great I made good time last night. After about ten KM I remember in Kenya distances and direction answers are completely random and usually irrelevant to the truth. Silly me.
My bad mood is broken when I finally reach Lemex and I’m treated to my staples of late, ‘mixed’ fried eggs, chapatis, chai, and good conversation. A young Maasai named Dominick, although his shirt is embroidered with Sean, speaks perfect English and we talk about California and his job as a safari guide. He tells me what to expect ahead… which is unusual, most people I meet have never been ‘ahead’. Faith in my fellow man restored, as well as my smile, I ride away with my spirit lifted and I see the sweet Africa again, giant acacia trees, the white moon in a blue sky, beautiful young Maasai girls dressed in colorful traditional ceremonial garb. Yes a whole new Africa.
I reach a tarmac road and the sky opens up into the US’s Midwest. Corn and wheat fields. This road leads to another and there materializes civilization at the crossroads, a place called Oloulunga. As usual every eye in the place is on me. My mouth is watering for a banana. I am greeted by a young man that speaks English. He is instantly my servant. What do you desire Madame? Nataka banana. He rushes off to find one. His name is Elvis, and he is about 22yrs and works gathering wood, then turning it into charcoal. He has a chronic chest problem that he treats with warm cow’s milk. Oh well. He has a funny way of using hand gestures and a slight twitch in his right eye. No bananas to be had, in his hand are five green oranges...tasty indeed. He escorts me to the ‘best’ hotel in town, which remember is really a restaurant. I am tired.
The 34KM to Narok seems far, very far. I ask about camping. The proprietor, Mohamed grants my wish, and I set up camp on the lush green lawn. When I ask if it is a secure place, he tells me there will be a 24 hour guard. I am reassured that nothing bad has ever happened here.
I am sitting is an open air room about 20’x50’.At one end is a television sitting on a table like a king perch on a throne, obviously the center of attention. Forty or fifty men have gathered here to watch the Kenyan 7:00 news. They line the walls and stand outside the windows. There are NO women, save me. I stick out like a sore thumb. Kenya is a land of men and invisible women. The TV is powered by the generator next door at the BP station.
The rain has begun, it is a heavy rain that threatens to go on all night. I worry about my tent spot. The rain on the metal roof completely drowns out the television’s volume, but the audience is faithful. This is so weird. I can’t help laughing. I’m going to bed.

Well things have happened. I was careless and some one stole my valuables back pack while I was washing. God it had everything in it. I know, I know I should have split my $$ up into different locations, I should have taken it with me, I shoulda, woulda, coulda.
I find the escari (security guard) and report the loss. I watch a gambit of emotions cross his face. First comprehension, then fear, then anger or annoyance and finally determination. I don’t really understand the order of these feelings until much later.
I crawl back into my tent and draw my knees up to my chest. I feel horrible. In a moment’s time everything has changed. No ID no credit card means no money, no money means no food, no food means challenging riding. How far is Nairobi? I know it’s about a 5,000 ft above sea level, how high am I now? Oh man I didn’t want to climb out of the Rift on that crazily busy road. How long will it take? How will I ever get to the Westlands in Nairobi traffic?
I sit here with the ‘pit of my stomach’ feeling, rocking slightly, hearing the rain. OK what to do. First ….try to get it back. I have an idea.
I emerge from the tent and observe the buzz between the escari and lingering TV watchers. I make an announcement, “I must get a message to the people who have taken my bag. This bag contains all my necessary papers, my ID, it is so important to me. I will not call the police if it is returned, even without the money. They can keep the seven thousand schilling no ??s asked if only they return my bag and its contents. This is my prayer.” I get several nods of understanding, but a little resistance from the security guard. He wants to tell the big boss and the police immediately. I realize his motivation is job security, I begin to understand his fear and annoyance. We agree on a compromise, we will tell Yosuf, Mohamed’s son, tonight and report to the police tomorrow if it has not shown up.
With that said we begin the march through the soggy night about two kilometers down a muddy road. When we arrive Yosuf is awake… obsessively chewing mira leaves. Stuffing his cheeks so full that saliva runs down his chin. After a long discussion, and many relative stories, the deed is done. We have informed the boss.
Nothing left to do tonight, we trudge back to the ‘hotel’. Voila! What is this ?!?!? MY BAG stuffed back under my tent flap. Amazing! My passport and credit cards and most everything else, wow. Well maybe not every thing. My phone, binoculars, camera, (of course the money) and …oh no …my flash drive too, all missing. Too bad. Oh well, I am grateful, so very grateful. Such a long, long day, I fall asleep at last.







Day nine

Today was a very humbling day, the kind of day that you pray a lot and feel like you have used up one of your lives at days end. I don’t feel the exciting appreciation of being alive, I just feel quietly thankful that I can still live the life I started with this morning.
The morning was slow. It had rained a lot and the sun was sluggish behind morning overcast. I started to dry my camp.
I had a comfortable breakfast and talked to the people involved in last night’s saga. I also talked with the big boss Mohamed. I searched around my tent and followed some paths leading away from the crime scene. I found some items that had been well tucked away in my wallet and hope was kindled for finding my flash drive, which was what I missed the most at this point. No luck after hours of searching.
Finally I am packed and ready to shove off. Urgency begins to rise in my hosts as I make my departure known.
‘There is still hope’ Yusuf states. Oh really? What do you mean?
Seems that the old man had called the police and an investigation is in progress. Mohamed comes to me and says the police need a statement just in case any thing is recovered. OK
The scrawny police officer, with a worn out suit, wire rimmed spectacle and a walking cane, Mohamed and I, climb into the cab of a small but large lorry. I thought the police station was around the corner in the town. Wrong.
We travel down the tarmac road a kilometer or so and then turn onto a dirt road leading into the interior. It is farm country. I remember thinking ‘I’m in Kansas, Todo” when I bicycled into this area. The farms are wheat and corn fields. Not many tractors though…. lots and lots of hand work. Even the spraying of pesticides is done by individuals. A man with a generator back pack that sprays the stuff out under pressure. I never saw any protective wear on these workers and was told that they receive 200sch per hector, remember that a hector is roughly twice an acre and 70sch equals one dollar.
Anyway back to the story. Here we are traveling farther and farther from my stuff and the road to Narok. I am in a truck sitting between two men I do not know… or trust for that matter… traveling to who knows where. I begin to have a sinking feeling. I asked how far? Mohamed replies just another 8Km form here. Oh my god, we have already been in the truck for twenty minutes, I start calculating the distance. I think ‘I can walk back, in a pinch’. I keep a close account of the directions. I imagined escaping and returning stealthily in the cloak of darkness. I saw culverts and trees I could use while cars passed. I will have to scale the brick building they have locked my bike into and haul my stuff bit by bit over the ten foot wall to freedom. Oh man what have I got my self into.
I caught a glimpse of my face in the rear view mirror, I began consciously trying to relax my furrowed brow.
Finally we stopp. There was nothing. No police station, no buildings of any kind. Just fields of wheat and a muddy road on the left. We climb out of the truck. ‘We will walk from here’ Mohamed mumbles. I look around and there are several people getting out of the back of the lorry. One of them was the young man that I had first met at the crossroads who had directed me to the ‘hotel’. I smile at him, and I’m not sure if I actually spoke words, but I asked him ‘what are you doing here?’ In reply he lifts his hands, they are hand cuffed together. Oh brother what next. I looked around again, there is the butcher who had brought me water, the baker who had served me mandazis, and the security guard that had failed to protect me. The butcher, the baker and the charcoal maker, all in hand cuffs, all trying to defend themselves by laying blame on the others. What a scenario this makes.
We beian to walk up the muddy hill. Over the top, and over a kilometer later, I see the Police station. Talk about way the bum fuck out there. I begin to think of my role and how the hell I’m going to get out of this one without hurting some innocent bystanders. They had arrested virtually everyone that had talked to me…. lesson to Kenya’s citizens do not be nice to mzungus.
Upon arriving at the station several other officers, (with not much to do I imagined) greet us and are filled in on the happenings. The number one suspect is the butcher, for it happened while I was bathing with the water he brought. He is a kind of weasely guy that whimpers and whines in a high pitched pleading voice. Next is the Maasai security guard who tries avidly to make the case of the butcher’s guilt. And then the waiter that had tried so hard to convert me into taking Jesus into my heart, last night… I secretly want him to sweat a little.
I had decided on a plan and now with all of us gathered in front of the station, I begin. ‘I think there has been a mistake. I thought someone had stolen my bag, but I was wrong and here it is to prove it. So sorry for the inconvenience’
I hear Mohamed whistle through his teeth, poor guy now his reputation is at stake. 'What about the items still missing?' he announces.
‘Well I have lost my camera and binoculars but in thinking about it more thoroughly I think they may have fallen out of my bag when my bike fell over on my ride from the Maasai Mara.’
Oh brother that starts a whirlwind of Swahili. We finish our business inside the station, me leaving multiple statements and them shaking their heads and trying to act official. I have to admit I begin to feel that I have the upper hand. I don’t think they see many mzungus and especially not a pushy vocal white girls. Everyone in Kenya seems to harbor a sort of awe concerning US mzungus. The main officer, Gabriel, is obviously fighting the generational lesson of ‘must get mzungu contact for life miracles to happen’ and I smile to myself at my new found, inherent power.
While left alone in the office, I read my horoscope, YOUR STARS, was the title. Taurus: “Relating to others today could cause a very dramatic affair. If it is too much for your laid back nature, take a walk or go for a drive.” Well I guess I opted unknowingly for the drive.
Here’s another laugh for those who know me. Gabrial slowly and meticulously writes down all the items by hand in an official notebook. I am trying to down play the value of the items so whoever took them won’t spend the rest of his life in a jail cell. When he comes to the phone he asks me for details… I tell him the make… at that moment he pulls out his phone … I was in the middle of telling him it had little value…and he realizes that the make is the same as his…. “like this one” he says ….. “yea, the cheapest one I could find” ….woops. He looks at me, shakes his head and says “ oh, Madame”. I laugh a bit nervously, foot in mouth strikes again.
I leav not knowing if my plan has helped the poor suspects or not, they are all being locked up in the single cell. But I get into the truck with a sigh of relief, and soon we are back at the crossroads and my beloved bike.
The day is speeding to an end and I dread the thought of staying here another night. Narok is 34Km down the road and it probably has a real hotel. So I prepare to leave heading straight into the afternoon showers.
But miracles do happen, and Mohamed’s son-in-law drops in on his way to Nairobi, and guess what, he is driving a pickup with a covered bed. Prayers are answered sometimes