Leaving Rusinga - Ethipoia Bound! (Almost) - Sam

Well, here we are. Sitting idle in Nairobi. We were told by the agency we are going through in Khartoum, Sudan that the necessary paperwork has been submitted to the Sudanese embassy in Nairobi needed to issue our visas. And yet, here we are with no visa...waiting. Getting a visa for an American is no easy feat. When we went to the embassy to apply, they told us we would have to go through an external source that would take our information and either approve or decline our request and then send our info (passport copy, passport pictures, flight itinerary, etc...) to the embassy in Nairobi. Then we can go pick up our visa. As it turns out the agency sent our visa approval to Washington D.C. instead of Nairobi. Classic Africa. Also, for an American the visa costs nearly $160 compared to about $50 for anyone else.

One would think at this point in our trip we would come to expect delays such as these. However, one does not release his ingrained western sense of time and efficiency in just three months. No in reality it takes much, much more time than that. It also takes a conscious release of expectations. "Relax, it's Africa," a common phrase we hear throughout the continent. Easier said than done for these Americans. African bureaucracy makes going to the DMV seem like a vacation. If you ever have to wait one day, even two for something to get done, don't even think about complaining. Or if you find frustration and anger welling, just take an African vacation. It will resolve your plight through the necessary defeat that is accompanied with getting anything done on African soil.

Just a few days ago we left Rusinga Island. Our time there was a nice break from the buses, cars, trains, ferries, sickness and the constant travel we experienced through southern Africa. We got to experience the slow pace that accompanies small villages in Africa. We read...a lot. We woke up each morning and had our tea and our mandazi, traditional fried dough, and got a couple chapters in before we headed off to class at either the primary school or the secondary school. Or we would ride into Mbita and use a computer, if the power wasn't out or the internet hadn't stopped working. There were no set times, or schedules. Everything ran on African time and was subject to change.

Our last weekend before we left, Matt and I traveled to Kakamega forest, the last surviving tropical forest in Kenya, the rest, which was quite vast, has been overused and deforested. Kakamega is the small bit of forest left the government has preserved and limited the use of. On the way there I had an interesting experience. I crashed my motorcycle into a car. It wasn't very fun.

I was riding on the shoulder of the road, a common practice among motorcyclists in Kenya going around 70kph. A car passed by on the road to my right, when suddenly the car slowed down and began drifting into my lane and turned right in front of me. I slammed my brakes and tried to slow down as best I could, but to no avail I could not slow down fast enough. I hit the front corner of the car and flew across the hood hitting the left side of my body on the ground. This is where the story gets interesting.

I jumped up with more adrenaline rushing through my veins than I have ever experienced, took my helmet, off threw it onto the ground, and began yelling at the driver. I lost total control. I yelled obscenities at the man and asked why the fuck he didn't use his turn signal or use his mirrors. The man exclaimed that I should not have overtaken him on the left side of the car and that it was my fault. Within a minute or two a crowd had gathered. I picked up my bike and thankfully it started. The rear brake pedal was bent completely out to where it was perpendicular with the bike and the metal bar that connected the pedal with the actual break was rubbing against my tire and making a terrible sound. People began looking the bike over. Many hands where touching parts on my bike. An older woman showed up and started yelling at random people. She had a large rock in her hand and was threatening to hit random people, people that had nothing to do with what just happened. She began touching my bags on my bike and I, still in my state of adrenaline fueled rage, yelled at her to get her fucking hands off my shit. She did. At some point I calmed myself down and talked with the driver and asked if he called the police. He hadn't and I apologised to him and said let's not call them. He said that because he was a born again Christian he wouldn't. Thank God for the colonizer's religion. I shook his hand and the hand of the passenger and the crisis was at bay. I then felt my leg which was beginning to hurt to make sure I didn't have a tib or fib poking out. I did exactly what I learned people do in such cases and exactly what you should not do. They have adrenaline pumping and are in a state o confusion and shock. They get out of their totaled cars and walk without realizing they have a broken ankle. Thankfully in my case I didn't. I walked away with a few bruises and a scraped up knee and no incident with police where bribes would have certainly taken place with the officer and likely the driver of the vehicle.

My bike was rideable, but just barely. I rode about 40kph to Kisumu, the nearest town about 15 km away, where I went immediately to the boxer shop to have the damaged assessed. There was surprisingly little damage. There were guys outside the shop, one of which looked at my bike and told me to buy a new brake lever and he would fix it for 200 shillings, or about 2 bucks. I bought the part for 1000 shillings and he got to work. He started pounding metal parts back into place with a hammer only too have two of those parts break, the bar that the break lever slides onto and the foot peg that you rest your foot on when you ride. He had me follow him around the corner to a welder who put a couple spot welds on the parts. We went back to the shop to find out that the break lever wouldn't fit back on the metal peg because the spot weld prevented it from sliding all the way back in place. Back to the welding shop. The welder attempted to grind the spot weld downg but couldn't get the large grinder to fit into where he needed. He then resorted to grinding the break lever I just bought down enough to fit it on the peg. It worked. That's African ingenuity for you. Back at the Boxer shop the guy, mechanic I guess you can call him, finished getting the break hooked up. The bike was back to workable order within an hour of arriving at the shop and cost no more than 20 dollars.

As slow as most things take in Africa, this was incredible. A shop in the US would have not only cost at least 10 times that it would have taken at least a whole day to get your bike back, maybe more depending on where you were in line with other vehicles. One of the racks on my bike is still bent and the engine guard is bent, but the guard did its job because other than the bent bars and two bend foot pegs, you can't tell the bike has been wrecked. When I go to sell it I will bend the engine guard back by hand and call it a day. That is, as long as I have no more incidents. I learned some lessons and am going to be more cautious and attempt to anticipate incidents before they happen. I may have been able to anticipate the driver was about to break and in the future I will assume the worst. A motorcyclist barely has more rights than pedestrians and people in Africa drive like absolute morons. Riding safely on this continent necessitates those two nuggets of truth.

We left Rusinga and rode the 11 hours and 450 km back to Nairobi where we expected our visas to be waiting. 450 km is a long way to ride in one day on 150cc bikes. As is the life in an African village, travelling on bikes is slow going, especially for us as we seem to get lost easily. Again, on the way back to Nairobi we got off track. And since neither of us have smart phones (I lost mine while in Rusinga as well as another nice jacket and a pair of riding gloves) it is much more difficult for us to stay on track. We do however have a tablet where the map is usually accessable offline. The issue with that is that it is much less accessable than a smart phone and we look at it less. During a break from riding, which are necessary to heal our backsides and keep from losing sanity, we pulled the tablet out and discovered we had missed our turn to stay on the intended road. Fortunately I remember seeing this route on the map and it only added around 40km to our journey so we deecided to press on. The new route stayed in the cooler Kenyan highlands much longer and offered a much more picturesque ride with lots of large pine trees, healthy cattle and vast tea plantatioons. Getting lost is the price you pay for freedom from the reliance on public transportation. One that Matt and I glady accept.

Rusinga Island - Matt

We've been on Rusinga Island for a little over two weeks now and we've had a chance get a lay o' the land so to speak. We've hiked all through the hills including a bloody bush whack to the top of the island. We've taken a weekend trip to camp in Ruma National Park. We've been teaching at a primary and a secondary school. We've ridden the ring road all around the island. And most importantly we've been living, eating and drinking the life of Rusinga.

Rusinga cell towers looking north

Given all of these recent experiences I would like to take this opportunity to depict in detail the rural African life that sits quietly on the island Rusinga. The island is covered with small tin roofed houses that pepper the landscape in varying densities. In between the houses are either shrubs and short trees in the steeper, rockier areas or fields newly plowed and waiting for the rains. Some of the denser sets of buildings have names like Wanyama and M'tare. These towns consist of a small convenience store, a spare motorcycle parts store a hair salon and maybe one other unique thing. M'tare has fish processing plant since it's right on the Lake and I use the term plant loosely here.

We live with Odula family on the northwestern slopes of the island just outside the small set of buildings called Kaswanga. These slopes give way to a shoreline with an empty horizon filled with the flat blue green expanse of Lake Victoria. The Odulas seem to be on the higher end of the economic strata of Rusinga. Michael Odula sr., our host father, is a well educated, well traveled and well thought of member of the community as far as we can tell. He has been involved with education on the island for the past 40 years. For much of that time he was a principle at the largest secondary school (high school) on the island. He is one of the UN Environmental Project's 500, which he is eager to remind of us frequently and is clearly one of his most prized accomplishments. He is on a "council of elders" that is involved with the entire lake region of Kenya. He's built a primary school on land he owns just above his property with his retirement fund, another fact he is eager to remind us about. We help out at this school two days a week. The school is a cement foundation with tin sheeting wired to wooden poles made from the local trees. It is basic but it takes in a lot of students. He has clearly done a lot in his life for which he is widely respected.

The Primary School Where We Work

In old age his passion for education, that he's had through his whole life, remains strong, however his energy and cognitive strength to accompany that passion must have faded somewhat. We have heard many of his stories multiple times. He seems to be hard at hearing which leads to some interruptions and loud repeations. And sometimes, when we're eating dinner or just sitting quietly with him, he'll murmur '...mmmMM. Yes. That is how it is.' or something to that effect. As though he is responding to the last statement made in a conversation that ended minutes ago. This by no means that what he has to say is meaningless. Far from it in fact. His experiences lend very credible and effective insight to Sam and I discoveries about Africa. 

For instance he has one anecdote Sam and I have heard a couple times about one of the conferences he's attended, maybe it was in Mexico, where the presenters show clips from, and describe the biggest slum in Nairobi, and maybe in Africa I can't remember. They used it as an example of poverty and how it hasn't got any better in Africa. At the end of the presentation Mr. Odula got up and said that they have just showed the most impoverished part of the city and that if they were to show the rest of the city or even the country it looks nothing like that. So why have they shown it? To this they did not say much apparently but invited Mr. Odula to meet with them after the presentation. They went up to their hotel room and had a couple drink and told him that if they were to show the Africa that he described they would loose funding. 

This is a huge part of the problem in our misconception of the way the world is improving. People want their organization to continue to be effective and profitable so they have to present the most heart wrenching data/images/stories possible to gain financial backing. 

It is difficult for me to say what is better. To have the misconception that much of the world is impoverished and thus acquire the financial ability to at least try and correct the problem, or, to spread the more objective truth about the matter and lose much of the ability to fix the many problems that are still present within impoverished communities. What I can say is that Odula long ago stopped attending these conferences. He can't understand how people can pay for him to fly business class around the world to stay in hotels that presidents stay in and are given stipends while there all to talk about how to fix poverty, and for that matter neither can I. What he has described to me would cost at the very lowest end 2000$ per person for a conference of at least 100 people, then add in who knows how much for speakers' fees and the cost of putting one of those one is huge. Looking around Rusinga I can see how just the cost of Odula's trip to that one conference could change the lives of many here on the island and Odula sees that as well.

The Odula household. Kitchen on the left. Living room on the right.

Though his accomplishments are somewhat unique to the island his position is not. The eldery in Kenya retains a respect and reverence, regardless of merit, that is seldom given to those in the US as far as I can tell. I would attribute this to the strong family and community bonds that permeate and sustain the culture on the island. Every single day we have neighbors walking onto the Odula property, essentially in between our bedroom and the kitchen and the living room since these are all separate buildings. Maybe they're neighbors asking for a cup of maize flour, maybe kids on their way to school, maybe it's just a cousin walking to town and decided to stop in to say 'hi'. Whatever it is they are all welcomed.

Since there is a lack of traditional western stimulants (TV, internet, books, model trains, etc.) due to lack of electricity and access and since the weather is so hot, many people spend their free time outside in the shade of their houses and talk. Talking is what humans used to do for fun before Thomas Edison and Alan Turing came along and ruined everything. This eagerness for human interaction seems to encourage keeping up relations with your local community.

Another reason for strong local ties could be this; Jane Odula, our host mother, told us yesterday that she has six sisters and five brothers and uncountable nieces and nephews, most of whom live on the island, just after she got back from a funeral for one of her cousins. On an island with maybe 5,000 people on it is not hard to see how families of that size would enforce and require strong community ties. Just the fact that we were able to find the people we were supposed to stay with just knowing their first names AND thinking they were white shows an interconnectivity that I could never imagine existing in the town of 8,000 from which I come in Idaho.

Think about it. How many unannounced visitors come by your house a day? What would happen if you went to a small town in America or Europe and started telling strangers that you were supposed to be living with Pete and Diane and they live somewhere in town. I don't see the reaction being more than a half hearted 'good luck'.

The Odula living room. With tea and chapati laid out.

A day in the life of the Odula family looks like this. Family's up with the sun. Young Michael and Gloria off to school which starts a 6am and goes till 5pm. Jane makes tea and breakfast for Michael sr., Sam and I. Breakfast is usually just a bread product. Chapati (fried flat bread), white bread and butter, fried chunks of dough, etc. Michael Martin (that's the middle Michael who graduated from secondary school last year and is waiting on his A levels results before going to college.) usually eats later in the morning if at all. After breakfast Michael sr. heads off to the secondary school he is the principle at and where we work. Sometimes he'll spend his morning checking in on the primary school he built he's involved with near their house. After he has left, Michael Martin cleans up the house, does the breakfast dishes, makes sure the solar panels are charging the batteries and takes the donkeys down to the lake to water then and fill up large jugs of water which the donkeys haul back up to the house to fill a large tin basin which stores all the water used for anything that isn't drinking. Drinking water is collected in a large black tank behind the house from rain gutters along the house and then treated with some chemical that tastes like bleach. After chores are completed then Jane and Michael Martin relax through the heat of the day or take care of any social matters they have.

The Odula kitchen where Jane spends most of her time. Notice the chicken.

In the evening Michael sr. will return at various times depending on the day’s work load. He has the time to relax and maybe shower, which is down by filling a bucket with water from the afore mentioned basin and taking it to a ring of tin sheeting around a pad of gravel. From there you strip down and pour water on your head, soap up, and pour more water on your head. Michael Martin will take the cows down to water by the lake. The kids come home from school and Gloria will start doing her homework, little Michael just hangs around and Michael sr. snoozes in his designated chair. Dinner happens sometime between eight and nine pm. We come in a little before and sit with the kids and Michael sr.. Little Michael and Michael Martin bring in the food and set it out in the living room. After washing our hands and a quick prayer it is time to eat. Sam and I are always allowed to serve ourselves first. Michael sr. is next. Then Little Michael and finally Gloria is forced to put her homework away and eat. About one out of two days we have Omena (the little sardines). About two out of every three days we have a stewed cabbage. And about three out of four days we have Ugali (essentially corn flour and hot water). The meal seems entirely dependent on what Jane can find at the market. She has been looking for Nile Perch since we arrived since it is the classic fish of Lake Victoria but has been unable to find it. Apparently, it is all shipped out to places like Nairobi and Mombasa now. After dinner everyone kinda sits around in a food comatose, Michael sr. will sit with his shirt unbuttoned leaving his huge hairless belly free to expand as necessary, until about 10 o'clock and then it's time for bed.

Ugali and fried omena (sardines)

Weekends change in that there is more food ate and they go to church on Saturday for four or five hours. And other than the essential chores they just relax and eat.

Life he has been a relaxing and eye opening oasis from the stresses and tunnel vision of the road and travel. It has given Sam and I the time we need to prepare for the second half of our journey. Our Sudanese visa has been applied for and should be on its way to Nairobi soon. We've mapped our itinerary for travel north through Ethiopia and are already feeling the calling for the road and the next leg of our journey. But it will be hard to start up from the peace, quite and relaxation that has characterized our time here.

Arrival on Rusinga Island - Sam

We arrived in Mbita, the town you reach before you cross over to Rusinga Island, with little information about the family we would be staying with. All we knew was that they were connected to a school (of which we didn't know the name), that they lived on Rusinga Island, and that their first names were Jane and Michael. We have been in contact with them for the past couple months talking briefly with one another through email. A few days before we left Nairobi, I realized we didn't know much more about them than their first names and the area in which they lived. I emailed them to get some more info about them, but got no response. We left for Rusinga a couple days later. 

We arrived on the island in the evening of the Feb 1st, the day they should have been expecting us. We knew Rusinga Island was small enough that we expected we could ask around and find them. After asking a local man if he had heard of them, he said, "Oh yes!" and directed us towards a school. He also said something about them being muzungus (white people), which was news to us. We then went to St. Joseph's Secondary School, an all girls Catholic school. We talked with a woman and asked her if she knew of a muzungu couple, Jane and Michael, who worked with a school on the island, whom we only assumed were actually a couple. She said no, but directed us to a man who seemed to be of importance with the school. He, not knowing who they were, then directed us to the Priest Father Sewe. Father Sewe was very friendly and welcoming, but didn't know who we were asking about so he gave his friend a call to ask if he knew of a muzungu couple by the name is Jane and Michael. He hands me the phone. The man on the end didn't know who we were looking for, but gave us another clue, the number of a muzungu woman, Linda, who runs an eco-lodge on the island. With this information Matt and I retired back to Mbita and got a hotel. We had been riding all day and decided to give up for the day hoping we would get a response from them by the next morning. Back at the hotel we decided we might as well call Linda. She, again, wasn't sure who we were asking about, but said she would call someone and get back with us. Within the hour she was back on the phone saying she has found Jane and Michael! She gave them our number and within the evening their grandson Michael Martin was in contact with us. We then made a plan to meet with them the following morning. It took 8 people and about 4 hours to find Jane and Michael Odula. As we learned, if we would have known their last names it would have taken far less people and we would have been at their house that evening. That's village life on Rusinga Island for you.

Home Sweet Home

The next day we rode to their house and were greeted by the family. There is Michael Odula,  that patriarch,  and Jane, his wife, their two grandsons, Michael Odula Jr. (known as Martin, his middle name) and Michael Odula III (known as little Michael) and one granddaughter. They are Rusinga Island natives and are certainly not muzungus, a fact that certainly made it more confusing to people when we searching for them. Michael showed us to our room which has two beds with mosquito nets. The property consists of four concrete buildings with metal roofs. There are chickens that roam around, a couple cows, and occasionally goats roam through the yard. I'm not sure who the goats belong to. Probably a neighbor nearby, but people often let their animals roam around freely so it's hard to to say for sure.

Our Room

That afternoon we accompanied Michael to Wanyama Secondary School where we would be volunteering. It is a small building that has two offices and three classrooms, although only one of the classrooms is being utilized as there aren't enough students, or supplies, to fill all three of them. Michael is working to get more students at the school and four more have recently shown up. With that being said other students seemed to have disappeared. The day before we arrived, Michael said he sent a few students home to try and collect their school fees. That may very well be why there are students that do not always show up to class. The school has a cook who cooks the lunch for everyone at the school. She cooks on an open fire right behind the school. There is a small room on the backside of the school where she can keep wood and prepare meals. 

Mr. Michael Odula

That same day, Michael sent Michael Martin with us to town to get some groceries on our motorbikes. As we were walking around the grocery store I began to wonder if we were going to be paying for these groceries. Occasionally Michael Martin would look at me and wait for me to pick out a brand of coffee or a brand of bread. I would look at him and say, "I don't know man. Whatever you guys usually get is fine." Then there would be an awkward pause and he would choose something. When we got up to the counter and everything was rang up and ready to be purchased, Michael Martin just looked at me. Again, an awkward pause. "Are you expecting me to pay for this," I asked. "Yes." I replied as if I should have assumed as much. "Well will I be reimbursed," I asked. With which Michael Martin assured me, Oh yes, yes of course." Of which I knew immediately was not the case. In Africa if people are unsure of what you said or feel uncomfortable they just tell you "yes, yes!" 

I was a little pissed off about the complete lack of communication that had just occurred and the assumption we would pay for everything. Upon returning to our host family's residence I showed Michael the receipt. Upon which he exclaimed dramatically, "Ohhh people in America are so kind and generous!" "No", I said dryly. "Am I going to be reimbursed the groceries I just bought?" His tone immediately flipped to a deep sadness, again very dramatic. "I am not sure how it will be possible." I explained to him that this time it was okay, but I did not appreciate him assuming I would buy things without any prior communication. I also added that on their page on workaway.info, the site we used to find this place, it clearly states that there is an exchange of volunteer work for room and board. Many other people are honest about needing a little money to help out with food and potential costs and that's fine. A large reason Matt and I can afford to travel as long as we are is because we are volunteering for a month. But everyone in America is wealthy right? No, of course not. Well, sort of. Wait...Maybe?

Last year I made far less than the standard poverty level wage in America. I also have the privilege of working jobs that pay for my room and board, so I am able to save much of what I earn. I also don't have a wife, kids, or even a girlfriend for that matter. That has allowed me to invest all my time and money into traveling a third of this past year. So no I am not rich, BUT I am traveling a third of the year and Matt and I just bought new motorbikes that cost about $1200 each. We are living a life of luxury and excess compared to that of a rural Kenyan. We just learned today that five students at a local primary school cannot afford their school fees that cost only $2.50 per month. That mean no education this month and quite possibly next month as well. After that who knows. So the question remains, are we wealthy? At this point, I barley have enough money to get through the rest of the continent and get home, let alone get back to work in Oregon. I'm counting on selling my bike at a somewhat reasonable cost. That may be a long shot. I honestly don't have the answer to the question. It's very clearly circumstantial, but I do have the insight at least to see how I am lucky and clearly privileged. Sometimes it makes me feel like I shouldn't be here. Sometimes I feel like an asshole for complaining about splitting a $40 bill with Matt with a family that barley has enough money to get by. And maybe I am. Other times I think why shouldn't I be able to travel and experience different places and meet different and inspiring people along the way. I didn't choose where I was born or what advantages I have in life. I'm just playing the cards I am dealt. Again, I don't have the answer. I suppose there is truth to both scenarios.

I think it is fair to also add that after getting to know Michael Odula a little better I believe he is a sincere man. He is passionate about education and has worked his entire life as an educator and principal. He is also well traveled and has studied education and environmental studies around the world. It may be that the incident on the first day was due to cultural differences and expectations of ones culture that in Michael's case turned out to be a little skewed.

The Secondary School Class

On a more positive note we are making progress with students that we are working with here. They are very shy and are not very inspired to participate in class. This proves to be a large obstacle as the only guidance we have been given for volunteering is, "Just interact with them." Yeah, interact with a group of 13 students from 2 -5PM who don't answer simple yes or no questions. Easier said than done. With the help of our cultural exchange that we have set up with my sister Diana's class, however, we are making some progress. The kids, ages 15-17, are beginning to come out of their shells and seem to be very interested in interacting with students from America. This week we are going to try and buy a soccer ball and volleyball for the school and teach a PE class. We're hoping that if we can get out of the classroom and get the kids moving and laughing, we will make even more progress. The kids are after all very bright. They just have never had a muzungu from America interacting with them in their class before. They are a little out of their comfort zones and that is OK. In fact is a very good thing and we hope that in the next 2 or 3 weeks we can create a more open and comfortable environment. At least as much as we can within such a short frame of time.

Me Enjoying Ugali and Sardines

The meals here have been quite interesting. Simple, but interesting. A common dish is a stew made from sardines that are caught regularly here in Lake Victoria. They are caught in large numbers and then dried and taken to market for sale. They are found in markets all through Kenya and in Tanzania as well. They have a wretched fishy smell that fills the air unmistakably when one gets even near a market. They are then stewed  in a salty broth that actually doesn't taste too bad. It isn't great, but not horrible. Today, however, there was no broth. Just salted, cooked sardines and ugali. Ugali is another staple food of both Kenya and Tanzania. One that the people here eat enthusiastically as it provides them with nutrients and energy to perform their daily tasks. It is made from maize and is a bread like dish that has little to no taste. I personally don't love it, but when eaten with salty fish or beans and rice, it isn't too shabby.

One of my favorite dishes we had just two nights ago. We had chicken that was cooked in a broth with rice, ugali and a green that resembles kale mixed with seaweed, also very popular. The soup had whole pieces of chicken in it and before I knew what I had grabbed I realized it was the chickens head. This honestly excited me as I love trying strange food that I am not familiar with. It is part of the joy of traveling. I began tearing the head apart and eating bits and pieces of meat including the comb, the fleshy red thing on top of the chickens head. Unsure whether I should eat the eyes, I turn and ask Michael whether I should indulge or not. He looks at me blankly and says, "I eat everything," and immediately returns to eating. So I pop one in, chew it up and swallow. It was as delicious as the comb, although the texture was a little unsettling. It had a rigid, almost crunchy bit that must have provided structure to the eyeball. After picking the thing clean, all that was left was the skull and what was inevitably inside. It is here that I regrettably refrain from continuing. I nibble at the brain stem momentarily and give up. That was a bit more than I was willing to eat, but as I am writing this I feel should have indulged a bit further. They may be time still before Matt and I depart for redemption. One of the worst meals I had here was plain beans and maize. It was not seasoned and the maize was not cooked thoroughly. It was a bit of a chore to get through. Neither Matt or I could finish the heaping bowl that sat dauntingly in front of us.

Matt and I on his Birthday

Nairobi on our own - Matt

Beating up the dusty dirt road our bikes rattle and moan against the bumps and the incline. I beep my horn a couple of times to get Sams attention and we bring our little convoy to a halt. 'Can we check the map again? This can't be the road.' Sam gets out his battered Wal-Mart smart phone, examines it for a bit and 'yep, this is it. Check it.' He passes the phone to me which shows the little blue dot (that is us) on the nice solid yellow line just west of Lake Naivasha. On the map the road looks like any other highway in Kenya. In reality the "road" looks to be the spawn of a poorly maintained dirt bike track and a riverbed. Comparing the map with what lies in front of me I try to trace our "highway's" path up the steep ridge line in front of us but have little luck. Just then little wet droplets appear on my hands and our shortcut has just become a race to the top of the valley. 'You know, those giraffes and warthogs on the side of the road were really cool and all,' I said as I restarted my bike 'but I really wish we hadn't missed that turn back in Mai Mahiu.'

Did I mention we'd bought motorbikes.

A week ago we arrived in Nairobi, Kenya. Sam and I have emerge triumphant from our multi week long quest to acquire motorcycles. You are now reading the blog of two proud owners of Bajaj Boxer BM 150s. In short they are awesome and riding them in Africa is awesome. However traffic laws here are a little bit different than in the states. Even the laws regarding motorcycles seem a bit different from the regular cars here. Motorcycles can basically do what they want. Is there a space on (or off)) the road that a motorcycle can ride on? Then that is considered a perfectly acceptable route for motorcycle travel. Is traffic at a standstill on the highway? Then feel free to fight your way between the semis, matatus (decked out buses with bumpin' tunes and a sweet paint job) and other standard 4 wheeled vehicles up to the front of the congestion to get where you're going. With some liberal application of the horn all options are possible.

Delivered from the oppression of public transportation we wasted no time getting out into the Kenyan country side on short excursions outside Nairobi with the twin objectives breaking in our motorbikes, since we are not supposed to take them over 55 km per hour (35mph) for the first 500km, and just practicing the feat of riding bikes in Africa. This has taken us to some beautiful and remote places allowing me to realize my purpose for coming to Africa in the first place; to get off the beaten path, out of the tourist trail, into the bush and into rural Africa without the shackles of guide or group. The day after we bought them we went on a ride and saw a hill covered in windmills. Said to ourselves, 'that looks nice let's go there'. Lo and behold 40 minutes later we were underneath the majestic twirling arms of modern clean electricity on top of a ridge that looked down into the Rift Valley. The day after that, a long 250km day sent us down into the Rift to the town of Magadi, where we remembered that Africa is quite hot actually, since Nairobi is quite cool, and where we were able to visit the Tata soda chemical factory sitting upon a lake of about five feet in depth and some two miles long. The road there allowed us to practice swerving our bikes along a road that appears to have received sustained artillery shelling sometime in the recent past. For there are miles and miles of road which is literally covered with potholes of no more than six inches in depth and in between six and 24 inches in diameter. I felt like an action hero zipping along at 50kmph weaving my way between the holes with only the numerous butterflies to contend with for open tarmac. Suffice to say, being freed from the tyranny of the bus, guest house, train, hostel cycle is exactly what I need.

Christoph showing Sam the ropes.

After all this driving practice we convinced our guest house owner, a German named Christoph but who's been in Kenya for over 30 years, to give us a quick motorcycle mechanics lesson in his garage behind the guest house. Christoph is a very funny man. Very happy and eager to please but also habitually gives ambiguous or sarcastic answers to things.
Sam asked him 'What time do you want to meet to work on the bikes?' '9:12 and 40 seconds' is his instant reply as he walks away.
Or I'll ask him 'Christoph, how much do we owe?' '5' is his response. '5 what? Hundred? Thousand?' I'd inquire. To this he responds "ho Ho! Dollars. I'd be rich then wouldn't I? Go on vacation I would.' and walks away. Sam later had to figure out how much we actually owed. Chris is always telling us to embrace Africa, give up on any expectation of the definite and just go with the flow. I tell him that 25 years of western indoctrination on the subject is hard to break but that I am trying. He also tell us that talking dirty to your motorbike is the best way to get it to do what you want. It's worked so far.

Once we'd settled up with our lodgings we struck out west for the two day trip to Rusinga Island on Lake Victoria, where we would be spending the majority of our February. We missed a turn and ended up at a nice bird viewing lake for lunch before we decided we knew a shortcut that would put us back on route. This resulted in what you have read above. All land is flat on maps. Luckily we beat the rain to the top of the valley and continued our bumpy ride through wheat fields down into the Rift., watching the rain pour down in the valley below. Even with the quality of the road being what it was, life in Africa must go on so Sam and I spent the ride avoiding motorcycles carrying 300+ lbs of baggage/people (this seems a prerequisite for African motorbike travel), herds of cattle, farm tractors and box trucks on three separate occasions. Eventually, we made it back to pavement both of us unsure if we were actually unhappy with our detour or not. Now I can say that I am quite happy with with it, even if we did end up riding the last hours of daylight into Narok in the rain and 100km short of our target for the day. We scrambled for a room in the mud drenched streets of Narok and found one for the both of us for 5 bucks. Shelter at that price wasn't much of an argument.

Up at six AM and on the road by seven, we road through the cold clear morning letting our shadows lead the way east to Rusinga Island.