Part one: Journey through Kenya

This is me sportin my fancy Kenyan doo, my hair is really quite short. Extentions... everyones doin it.

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.

Journey day 4,5,6

Day 4

Pretty uneventful. The descent becomes the norm, I truly enjoy the ride off the escarpment and into the Great Rift Valley. I cruise toward Lolgorian and the gates of the Maasai Mara. The landscape changes and the farms become scarce. More Maasai cattle less patches of maze. Sometimes I feel like a Maasai cow, my bike bell rings continuously, like a cowbell, as I bump over the rocky roads. The roads have been dirt since leaving Sondu. I’m not sure whether it is because of the rain, which make the roads impassable by car, or whether it is just the remoteness of my route, but the cars are getting scarcer, one every couple of hours or so and none during the night. I see my first wild animals in Africa, a band of zebra’s cross the road.
As night comes on I near my destination. I have ridden 104Km. I consider my options. I want to camp. I decide to ask permission from a Maasai family. What a scene.
It begins to rain…. like it does every afternoon around three or four. I scout out some possible fields but am enjoying the ride so much I pass many by. I know I do not want to stay in a town again. I am over stimulated by being the guest of honor every night, hosted by members of different types of tribes. Stiffly sipping tea with the men of the household discussing Bush and President Habaki.
I decide on a ridge with a view. I ride my bike down a narrow path through thorny bushes to a muddy yard. I am greeted by what my friend refers to as the ‘random kid factor’ and soon realize English is not recognized.
It’s quite comical really. Me in my bright blue rain jacket and pants, hood up, my bicycle leaned over in the muddy yard. Twelve scantily dressed, snot nosed, dirty little kids that I couldn’t imagine touching, all under the age of six, with giant wondering eyes and three woman, all in a circular mud and thatched roofed hut trying to communicate.
‘Welcome, Madame, welcome’ with gestures of entry. The children line up sitting on the damp earthen floor in the light cast by the doorway, twelve mind you… I counted. The older woman is mixing something with a stick and gourd, I think it is the mixture of cow blood and milk they eat. They have given me a sticky piece of wood to sit on… I think it must be their chopping block.
The old woman grabs one of the youngest kids by the hand and laughingly pulls him towards me until he bursts away from her grip, whimpering in ‘MZUNGU’ fear. The two other women…. beautiful woman, are trying to understand the nature of my visit. ‘I do not understand the language that you are speaking’ she says. I think ‘ yes you do, you are speaking it’. Eventually we realize all is in vain. I mumble ‘asante, kua heri, asante sana’ and duck out the door. Next time, I think to myself, don’t ask.
So I don’t. As I ride over a muddy river and up the other side a meadow calls to me, I scout it out and camp well hidden from the road.

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Day 5

Holy shit balls you would not believe what happened this morning!.

After deciding to camp in the bush, I scout my camping spot out. There are small bunches of trees in the middle of the meadow and large clumps lining the gullies. I look into the big clump and find a large flat cave like opening completely covered by foliage…. this seems pretty cool, but wait, there is an animal trail running off the side of it.
I decide to set up behind one of the small clumps, out of sight of the road. I have such a peaceful night of sleep, really needed
In the morning I watch the sun rise, mist rising out of the river canyon, clouds touched with pink, morning dew on spider webs. I take a short walk reveling in the solace. I spread my camp out to dry and ready to pack.
I am listening to the birds and thinking about adjusting my brakes. when I hear an especially loud bird hoot. I try to see it but fail. I rummage through my tools. Something catches my eye…. I stand up slowly. Three huge elephants with shiny tusks enter the meadow not 30m away!
They suddenly see me and my stuff hanging from the trees….sleeping bag, sheets, upside down tent and bicycle. They change directions abruptly and disappear into some trees.
After a few moments curiosity gets the best of me (not remembering that curiosity killed the cat) and I venture out to see the path they have taken. As I draw closer to the trees I see movement. Oh my god they are still there! In fact one bursts out of the trees and heads straight for me. I promptly and quite quickly retreated to my tiny clump of trees and kneel down trying to be the trees. They proceeded forward cautiously. They come within ten feet of my bike, huge ears forward, long trunks pointing…smelling.... they seem to be checking out the xtracycle, just like everyone else in Kenya. Then they turn and enter the trees opposite me… the right trail I presume. Good thing I had decided to camp near the small clump. CRUNCH!
I stay here for a long time, not being able to move… not wanting to. Just living the feeling I am having. It’s a feeling that is hard to describe. Excitement, yes, my heart is beating, but it is something more. Love, yes, I feel the overwhelming feeling of endorphins, but it is something more. I remember this feeling, I have felt it a few times in my life. A little when I touched a wild baby grey whale that was swimming in San Ygnacio bay, in Baja. A lot when I held each of my sons for the first time, an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. Yes I think I am touched by grace this morning.
I stare at their footprints on the grass in the morning dew not ten feet away. Oh how I want to share this moment with someone… you should see me try to explain it to the first Maasai I meet. Fingers around my eyes and an excited ‘tembos!’, three fingers up, ‘tembos!’.



Later that morning I meet a boy, Jeffery. He looks about eleven but he is fourteen and just entering high school. His family is Kisi, his father is a teacher that moved to this area twenty years earlier to teach the Maasai children. Jeffery can speak four different languages, Kisi, Kiswahili, Maasai, and English. I thank him for learning English, he nods in acknowledgement and says with confidence that he will study in the US someday. He becomes my ‘guide' for the next six km.
The minute he jumps on the back of my bike, monkeys rustle in the trees and a bush buck leaps across the road. I think there must be a little magic in this boy. We talk and ride, until the next town. Then sit down for a cold one…. coke a cola that is, and not so ‘bridi’ after all. The towns here are weird, they are all the same only on different scales. You know you are nearing a town when the litter appears and the houses start looking like cheap western look-a-likes, full hip metal roofs and simple shed barns. There are always tons of people outside and they all seem to be staring at me. I think about that and realize that I have not seen another mzungu since Kisumu five days ago. I’m rarer that a rhino in these parts.
The signs on the rundown store fronts are a crack up, ‘excellent store, hotel, bar’ all over the same door, Behind that door is a wire fence protecting the merchant of a store selling bagged peanuts, laundry soap, tubs of margarine and Kenyan tea. Nothing is newer than the 1950’s including everyone’s close.
Jeffery leads me through the stalls, I tell him I like to eat beans and rice….and chocolate. We pass a police checkpoint at the crossroads. I smile and the officer jokes with me about my bike. ’Is that a vehicle?’ ‘yea’ I laugh ‘a bike limo’. Only vehicles are allowed past this point, I wonder if I will have trouble getting out of here.
We enter the café. It is dark but nice. There are picnic tables and wooden benches, and dirty white lace curtains tied in knots hang from the ceiling in various places for ambiance. Plastic placemats from the seventies decorate the middle of the tables,painted with roses or tacky fruit of plenty horns, plastic tablecloths are also big here.
Soon the place fills up with young men staring earnestly at my map. Great concern is expressed over my planned route. ‘What will you do about the lions?’ ‘You cannot proceed without a vehicle. You must hire one.’ A firm shake of my head and a possible route emerges. I will head straight to Kichwa Tembo lodge, Kichwa Tembo means head elephant in Swahili. I will find lodging there.
I mount my trusted steed and head towards the park gate. Thirty kilometers of cool pasture like land filled with wild animal sign.The ride is sweet I see more herd animals, gazelles, impalas. I meet two Maasai girls that whistle and roll their eyes at the knowledge of my experience so far…. it is so far to them. They sell me a beautiful beaded vessel, for all the change in my pocket.
Finally I reach the Maasai Mara! I ride up to the gate. I ask about camping and they lead me down a grassy road. I ask for the most remote camp. I am the only camper they don’t understand my desire and ask if I won’t be scared so far from other humans. I love it! It is the most beautiful camp sight I have ever seen. I quickly erect my tent as the wind picks up. I tie all the strings to the ground pegs but it still collapse beneath the mighty wind that rolls across the plain like an invisible steam roller. I am pelted by raindrops driven sideays by the wind, but I only feel excitement. It is so beautiful. I stand under some trees as the lightening storm passes over. The thunders shakes the earth. Within an hour it has moved on. I watch it in the distance. The game warden starts a fire, he insists, says it is for the wild animals. I realize later that it is a warning to them that a man resides here tonight. I go to bed happy.



Day 6

Here I sit in the warm afternoon sun, under an acacia tree in my camp at the Maasai Mara Park entrance, listening to the ever-changing birdsongs.I am taping the cheap pair of tennis I bought in Mombassa ( so that I could work out in the fancy hotel gym) together with black electrical tape. It is still and peaceful before the rains, the grass is green knee high and graining out. From where I sit I watch a family of warthogs rummaging around their hole in a sandy bank. A motley crew of five baboons graze in the field, the big male sits on a bare termite mound and the little baby rides on mama's back. When I asked about security, I was warned that the baboons may attempt to steal from my tent. I smile at the relief of not having to worry about people for a night or two.
In the distance is a herd of African buffalo take a siesta. There is a funny blue-black bird with a bright orange head and an enormously long tail courting an audience of three females. When he flies he is taken by the breeze and must follow his tail, he looks like the bird version of the Siamese fighting fish. The birds make the most unusual sounds here. I hear them constantly. even throughout the night. The insects and frogs add to the continuous concert. They sound like amplified drips, giant leaky faucets. The tse tse flies buzz close ready to bite at any moment.
The moon was bright last night and I saw the giant form of an elephant pass by my tent, the fire reflected orange on his belly and the moonlight silver on his back. When elephants walk they are nearly silent. I was awakened by a deep drum like sound, I think it was him eating trunkfulls of grass. Elephant footprints have tread just like giant adidas, horizontal ridges and indented spots.
Lions roared during the night but I was disappointed when they didn't come close enough to see. Liz told me of her experience while in a safari camp deeper in the park. She was awakened by the heavy breathing of a lioness circling their tent, a coughing sound. She heard its footsteps as it moved away. I am jealous.
I heard hyenas too and some squawking, probably baboons.
There are flowers and butterflies everywhere. It is my day of rest from the bike. I feel so relaxed.
This morning at 6:30 I began my game drive‚?. Being solo I was accommodated by a friend‚ of the ranger. That's the funny thing about Kenya, there really are no problems 'hakuna matata', because you merely vocalize your desire and like magic you are accommodated… for a price. This price is thirty dollars for a six hour observation drive in a private four wheel vehicle. They don't allow bicycles in the park. In the National Park near Nairobi a Japanese tourist got out of his car to photograph the lions and was horrible killed and eaten in front of his hysterical family.
I was watching a herd of buffalo move into the field in front of me when Ahmiz and Wilson drove up. They are both from the Maasai tribe. Ahmiz is distinctly odd looking in his American attire; white safari hat contrasting with his dark pinched face, black Patagonia jacket, a loose fitting Rolex imitation, gold pinky ring, and chain necklace. Wilson is a ranger for the Mara Conservancy, he wors a green sweater and kaki trousers. He has a round baby face. My official, private guide, sweetly answering my every question. English is his third language so they speak mostly Maasai between themselves and Kiswahili to the other drivers and guides.
Our first mission was to get close to the buffalo…15' or so. I watched a bird disappear into a big bull's ear, eating ticks I was told. I have heard about buffalo getting agitated by cars and ramming them, actually being able to move the car with their incredible strength. As we dive, two jackals wait for the car to pass, they are like beautiful sleek coyotes. We see herds of elephants, another close view... always close views. Only the rhino family escapes the close up, we stayed 40 of 50 feet away from them, black rhinos, mama, papa and Jr. Junior is about four and a half years old and Wilson thinks mama is pregnant again. Through my binoculars I can see every hair wrinkle and mud clod's, this is close enough. The same type of bird works busily sorting out the giant creases.

Topi, water buck, thompson gazelle, impalas, hippos, crocs and giraffes; you name it we saw it. We watch a lioness assigned to baby sit, stare into the distance from the crotch of a tree. Four cubs lined the branches and a fifth stuck half way up the trunk not able to maneuver around the grumpy auntie.
We saw many, many of my plump friends the warthogs, impressive long manes, stuck up tusks and tails that stand on end like flag poles as they run.
My plan is to sleep during the rain today.
Such amazing bird life here, now two yellow and grey striped ones with rigid tails that stand up like road runners are making the loudest sound for their size.
The most impressive thing today, the water bucks They remind me of reindeer, I think I could ride one of them, they gallop like horses.
After many hours we stopped at the beautiful Serena lodge and had breakfast in the employee kitchen. Of couse I had the usual, fried eggs on chapati with a special prize... fruit salad, papaya, pineapple, bananas and avocados, made just for me. Yummy.
Well now, here I sit on my thermo rest, back to the tree, gazing out across the expansive Serengeti Plain trying to take this day with me into eternity. The rain is coming, the wind is picking up, the tension builds, I wish I could record this. The thunder the frogs starting up like giant raindrops... leaky faucets, the birds in the trees, the wind pushing the windmill as it creaks around to face the storm. My fire starts again like magic, bellowed by the coming storm.
I look out over the plain and see the clouds touch the ground where it is raining contrasted by the bright green sunny spots. Movement above me, flashes of light, the clanging bell sound of the Maasai's herds. Darkening skies. Anticipation building.
Tonight I watch the most intensely beautiful lightening storm I have ever seen. The flashes of light turned the underside of the clouds purple. I sit by the fire and watch the storm move across the Serengeti, each lightening bolt defined by the darkness. Oh… the thunder, it is impressive, some of the cracks sound like a godly version of Chinese New Year, each one continuing an unbelievable length of time. Sipping hot tea with my friends. Tiny raindrops sizzling in the flames, fireflies dancing all around us, it is truely incredible. Lightening storms and fire flies.
As I lay in my cozy bag lightening bugs cover my tent. They look like florescent blue-green stars. I feel so content, finally I am here in Africa on the Serengeti, something I have been dreaming about since I was old enough to dream.

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