Next Stop Kenya - 30 March 2002
Once More into the breach dear Scully
Rasta Ex-Pats
Leaving Ethiopia
Once More into the breach dear Scully
Once again, we got capital city inertia. Travelling as a group means always travelling when everyone is ready and although weíd kind of agreed to all make our own way to the border and then face the final rigours of the road into Northern Kenya, things did not go as we planned.
Stevie had decided that she was heading off. As we said our touching goodbyeís I was all too aware of how nice it had been to have female company for a while and knew that I would miss her.
Good news when Pat returned from sorting out his insurance he said that Stevie was still in there, so it looks like she will be back with us for a while.
Eventually, we had to spend a couple of days getting Kenyan visas as the news on the street was that you could not get them at the border any more. This affected the Hot Rockers also, but as they had a deadline to hit in Kenya, they set off anyway and left one of their number, Dave, to pick up the visas and catch up the truck before the border. As is usual with visa applications, delays creep in without warning and poor Dave was left with trying to find a way to get to the border in short time.
We went out to the cinema while Dave considered his position. It was bizarre to watch ëAnna and the Kingí in such a strange town. The whole evening seemed a little surreal ñ a bar serving port and Campari ñ being searched and having my Swiss army knife confiscated at the cinema ñ riding up ridiculously steep hills five up in a hugely underpowered taxi and a strange trawl to find food later on.
Scully stepped into the brink and offered a pillion ride down the length of Ethiopia at racing speed. First they had to fashion a foot rest out of an old length of pipe and try to gather together some gear for Dave. They departed heading for the highlands of Ethiopia (over 3000 metres) in the rainy season with no wet gear or helmet for Dave and only a pair of flip flops on his feet. They intended to make it all the way in one hit even if it required night riding. We prayed for them.
As we all set off from the site at the same time (Stevie and ourselves to take an extra day or two to get to the border), Scully turned left where we went right and with a bit of thought I realised that he would not have been able to get out of a steep junction two-up on his bike. Not the most auspicious of starts.
The roads south of Addis were a different world. No kids yelling ëyou, you, youí no stone throwing and apparently no blokes with rifles. The scenery was stunning and lush, it seems that everything can be grown here. As the altitude went up and down so did the vegetation and bird life - a naturalists delight. We really must return here, and give this country a better look, when we donít have to catch Scully up and pick up the pieces. Unfortunately, Pat could not fully enjoy the winding tarmac, due to the continued perfusion of donkeys, cows, children playing and general pedestrians on the road. We thought of Scully and Dave honing down the road to catch the Hot Rockers. We had a particularly scary moment in a village, a lad was playing hoop and stick down the middle of the road and when Pat hooted to him his hoop veered away from us and the 4 year old lad run directly across our path, missing the front wheel by a matter of cms. How we missed him I do not know ñ the St Christopher I wear must work for idiot pedestrians too.
We landed in Awassa just past Wendo Genet at a strange little place run by a German and her Ethiopian husband. The ëcampsiteí was a field but she did do the most wonderful food and the breakfast was out of the world, ranks with a Belgium number at the start of this escapade.
Wendo Genet is a Hot Springs about 30km away, so we popped into dear Brumus and headed off up a dirt track to the most beautiful oasis. Half way up a valley and surrounded by rain forest and the accompanying wildlife it was idyllic. The gathering of Rastafarians was something to do with the local town being something of a Rasta Mecca, full it seems of Mancunians. It was incongruous to be sat in such luxurious surroundings listening to a chorus of Northerners.
Very reasonably, they argued that they had left Britain because they were fed up with racial harassment. We asked whether they had been accepted as locals and they conceded that they were seen as faranjis. But as they were spending their saved up hard currency, I guess they were living quite well. The only major complaint came down to the poor supply of water. ìWhy donít they come over here and build dams for us?î When asked whom they meant, they pointed out the western countries from which they had ëescapedí. Talk about wanting cake and eating it.
We got back to the bar/field to be treated to the Ethiopian coffee ceremony. This takes a while and some families go through it three times a day apparently. First the beans are roasted from their green state to the more familiar brown. I confess that I never knew how green fresh coffee beans are! Then they are ground and coffee prepared while a bit of pop corn is made for light relief. It is considered poor form to have lees than three cups (which are not large) and so as each cup is prepared fresh, things get a bit protracted.
After another fantastic evening meal we retired promising to set off bright and early in the morning. We were all eager to find out how Scully had got on. The road away from Awasa followed the bottom of the Rift Valley for quite a way until rising in some fairly dramatic slopes up the side of the valley to some fantastically fertile areas. Poor Brumus struggled a bit until we found that one of the hoses had come of his turbo.
Back on the down hill heading towards Moyale and the Kenyan border, the roads were lined with folk walking to various markets and back. As a blessed relief from the bland blokes wearing the obligatory western throw away clothes, the women dressed in their traditional finery. They really were quite stunning and we were really disappointed and, I guess, impressed that none of them would allow us to take pictures of them.
We arrived at Moyale just after dark and took refuge in the first half decent looking hotel that we found. The guy who showed us in made no mention of a certain mystery guest lurking at the back and so it was quite a surprise when we found Scully bent over his bike in his usual fixing posture. When I pointed him out, the hotel manager extolled his virtues as being a ëbrilliant mechanicí. My how we laughed.
I should point out that Dave, Scullyís passenger is about 6 ft 3 with long arms, big feet and an all encompassing smile. Scully on the other hand is 5ft 2. Try to picture Scully hunched over his sports engine and Dave perched on the high tail piece behind him, doubled up to try and avoid the rain and wind. Dave was of course carrying all the passports for the Hot Rockers in his rucksack, which by now may well be getting damp. The seat itself was the kind of which only the most dedicated pillion riders would consent to ride on measuring 7cm by 12cm and as solid as you like. Personally, I would probably divorce Pat if he had chosen such a machine for my comfort. Dave, like Scully, likes a challenge and consented to the trip(at time of writing it is now over a week on and he is still concerned about the peculiar feeling in his derriere). Scully, also had a close call with an inattentive pedestrian, but this time St. Christopher was not with him. The bike hit him square between the legs and he bounced on his bum down the road. After checking that the poor chap was OK, they set to bending the front of the bike back into shape. Needless to say, when we met Scully in Moyale he was again sorting out a bit of welding, and re-wiring.
Our departure from Ethiopia was marked by the well deserved trouncing of Ipswich 4 ñ 1. What a difference a ref makes!
The border was reasonably smooth and as we crossed into Kenya, there was a sign saying ëRemember to drive on the leftí and then the left side of the road was blocked so we drove on the right. There was a distinct feeling of efficiency about the border officials, and with perfect English they fed us through the paperwork in about 15 minutes. Scully, of course had no carnet and would have to return the next day to pay import duty.
After the bad roads in Sudan and Ethiopia and now that the gearbox was beginning to make grating noises Pat was determined not to put extra strain on the bike and was talking of putting the bike on the truck. I could see his point, we had heard stories of this road being the worst in Africa and of bikers breaking wheels and the like. On the other hand, I felt that if the road was that bad, I didnít want to leave Stevie to travel it with only Scully for company, who despite his charm and ingenuity is on this trip to learn mechanics and doesnít know the first thing about landrovers.