Normality (Kenya) - 10 April 2002
On the town - Nanyuki
Paradise with a mud coating
Perfect Asphalt, Africa. Surely not
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and friends
Romance ñ you have to donít you?
After a night of drinking Tusker and eating lovingly prepared food, we awoke to yet more luxury ñ bacon lovingly prepared by Fi. Life doesnít get much better than this. OK a comfortable bed instead of a thin mat in a tent may be preferable. Still you canít have everything.
Fi had been casing the joint having arrived three days ahead of us and assured us that there were untold luxuries awaiting us in the supermarket at Nanyuki. As there were just seven of us at the camp we decided to share transport and go up to town on a shopping / netting / beery spree. The way there was by the local bus which was comfortable for the others but not for me. Because they all piled on first, they were sat together in the front seats. I was left with a seat at the back sharing a row of three with a couple of extremely large ladies. In Guyana, the seating arrangement is described as taking a squeeze.
The downside of being sat at the front for the others was that they could actually see the road events unfolding before their very eyes. I was simply aware of the fact that at one stage we were going down a steep hill on a single track road with a minibus on one side and a pickup on the other both travelling the same way but slower. How we got into this position, I can only try to imagine.
Truly, the Settlers Store in Nanyuki is a delight to all but the wallets. Assorted cheeses, pork products, Belgian chocolates, wines etc, etc. We were not too surprised that the clientele were mainly white Kenyans. We bought very little being as tight-wadded as usual, but could not resist buying a thank you bottle of Chardonnay for Stevie. Internet followed at the outrageous price of six quid an hour. I guess we ought to be in a position to post an international rip-off internet league soon.
On to the Sportsman Hotel and after entering by the back entrance and seeing all of their facilities we eventually found Scully, Johnny 9.5 (tiddlywinks king) and Kate enjoying a beer. The venue was self selecting being the only non-professional bar in Nanyuki. We joined in with the general drinking including a round of Springboks (donít ask) and ate their finest fare later. Getting back was the problem.
There were 7 of us, so theoretically that is 2 taxis to go 30km back to the campsite ëcos the buses stop at 7pm. Scully being the best at getting a cheap deal, was sent on a mission to get trans-bee back. He returned excitable and gleeful that he had persuaded a Datsun driver to take us all. We were hurried out by frantic Scully to the awaiting Toyota Corolla and squeezed Pat and I in the front seat and the other 5 in the back. Memories of trips down the Essequibo coast came flooding back. The driver fair play to him drove well avoiding the worst of the broken tarmac and taking any remaining bumps with the care of someone who was concerned with his overloaded suspension.
He even agreed to take us down the track to the campsite. Until... There was a little heap of bushes in the centre of the track and Pat said drunken and confused ëwhoís put a garden there?í The headlights of the Corolla just made out a quagmire ahead, and in fairness to Pat it was now easily confusable with a freshly dug allotment in the half light. Wisely the taxi went no further and we loaded all our goodies from Nanyuki. Scully, being one to like a challenge was the first to head through the mud. He ran, slithered, tottered but managed by Irish luck to stay upright. The rest of us were more cautious. All bar Scully and Stevie removed out footwear in seconds as the pasty mud squelched at our feet. The cold mud squeezed between our toes as we edged our way blindly down the path. We were met half way by the guard with a touch and a spear to protect us of course. I was completely disorientated, the path in the mud looked entirely different by touch light, and it wasnít until we were almost on top of our tents that I knew where we were. It was clear that the place had been flooded out; the owners had kindly moved our tents above the water level and more importantly made sure that there was ample hot water. What stars? We then decided to sink a few bottles of Gouder wine, before we retired to bed.
It was not until the harsh light of day that the true carnage was made clear.
The opinion of the manager was that a dam had given way further up the slopes of Mount Kenya. This is a fairly big mountain and so a large rush of water can carry a fair bit of mud with it. The resulting mud pile filled up the campsite including the restaurant and bar., the swimming pool, and other facilities. We offered our help to shovel and tidy, but were at first turned down being as how we were punters. After a while, the boss found a job for us ñ using the Hot Rockerís chainsaw to cut up dead trees that had been washed down. So, we cut up and split logs and carried them about. Considering what a jolly boyish activity it was, the girls seemed to quite enjoy it, too.
Wasson, the boss, handed out the lagers after all was clear. A man who knows how to manage people.
Hot Rockers returned from the slopes of Mount Kenya wet and weary and strangely quiet. It seems that the cause of the mud slide had had them abseiling down a waterfall as they attempted to retreat from the heights.
Having got the cleaning bug, we decided bravely to look in the panniers to see what carnage had been caused by the road down from Moyale. The problem is that although the aluminium boxes are great to pack and sit on and had saved my legs from a good crushing on a couple of occasions, their inner surface tends to break down to a fine powder after a continual thrashing down bumpy roads. Did you know that that powder they use for fingerprinting which is so difficult to clean off is in fact aluminium powder? As our packing inside the panniers is mostly in metal boxes, plenty of grey powder was generated and as a result it was all over everything. (To the extent that my fatherís old Billy can that had survived the blitz had two holes in it where the aluminum had simply been worn through by the constant friction.) We resolved to get plastic boxes for the rest of the trip. Lining the panniers with sticky back plastic was the favoured method of Achim and Suzy. Letís see if Blue Peter supplies can be found in Nairobi.
Perfect Asphalt, Africa. Surely not
We passed by Nanyuki again on the way to Nairobi and were overjoyed to find that the road was perfect tar at last. Struggling up the hills was not too bad even with the depleted range of gears. Seemingly, the engine is improving as the journey goes on to compensate for all the other faults. We can trundle up hills in top gear at 50 mph no problem.
Yet another joy. Road signs. Not seen many of those since Cairo. Street names, the lot.
From my point of view it was a little dull. There was no real navigating to do until we hit the city and previously I had entertained myself by working out what town we were passing through by calculating the distance covered on the speedo and looking at the map. Now the road signs tell us where we are and which way to go. How dull!
Campsite in Nairobi. Hot Rock present along with a load of other overlanders. Apparently, from here down, Africa is swarming with overlanders. The softies (read sensible) donít go north of here. Reasonable food, reasonable drinks. Rain.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and friends
At the camp we met Andy, a South African / Irish / English guy (depending on which of the three passports he chooses to use) who Thiago had been waiting for in Khartoum. Bike now well knackered, he was waiting for parts. At least he had done the rounds of bike doctors and could recommend a very nice man to me. Rick turns out to be a white Kenyan who manages a fleet of vintage cars for a guy from a fire insurance business. Out at the ranch there was everything from RR Silver Ghosts to TR6 including a boat bodied Bentley and a 1946 Triumph Roadster with a bizarre dicky seat with a glass boot inside it.
I liked this man instantly.
We went around the back to his bikey bit to find all manner of BMWs mostly in mint condition. He assured me that he could fix my problems as, if push came to shove; he had a complete spare gearbox that he could drop in. I left him to delve. He even gave me a lift back into the town to look at the Catholic Cathedral and then dropped us off at the hypermarket.
We found out Tupperware, then. And cheep beer, cheese, et al. We dined cheaply as a result and confined ourselves to camp playing Scrabble for the evening while the Hot Rockers headed down for a ëcultural experienceí at the New Florida club which apparently boasts one of the largest numbers of professional working women in any small space anywhere. Whatever turns you on? We sat around and felt old. Not long ëtil Iím 39, eh?
News in the morning was predictable. New gearbox required. Good news was that the driveshaft seems to have plenty of life left in it. Clearly all of the horrible rumbliness must have been coming from the gearbox bearings which had gone south. Total bill to come to 350 quid. Ouch.
More internetting and journal writing for the afternoon punctuated with the local specialty ñ sausage and chips. Pies are also available so it seems that Northerners must have been part of the colonising force.
Next day, the bike came back complete with a new gearbox. It took Bracken Motorcycles 2 weeks to do the same thing when installing that previous box that is now bollocksed. Africa is not totally devoid of utter efficiency, then. Three days, in fact less than 48 hours, for the removal, disassembly, reassemble and reinstallation of a gearbox along with a couple of other bits and pieces. I pretty much decided to christen my children after this guy but then realised what a nonsensical thought this was.
Romance ñ you have to donít you?
We had been hoping to stay somewhere nice for a couple of days for our wedding anniversary, rather than the rainy campsite. But hotels in Nairobi seem to be in two distinct categories; knocking shops and exorbitant, ex-patriot hotels. Fortunately when we popped into the VSO office they tipped us off about a little hotel that was both reasonable and respectable. So we packed up the tent and went for a more conventional bed. That night was a blessed relief , over the last few months we have been camping in our miniscule tent, with no sound proofing, and not wanted to cause an embarrassment to the neighboursÖ