The Road Via Hell

Bogged Down 45 minutes extricating Scorpion

I lifted Scorpion onto her feet. There were no damages this time given that I was riding below 40Km per hour. I mounted her and road like nothing had happened. I had no cares whatsoever in the world but at this rate, this strip of the odyssey was in for a long haul. I submitted to my mundane fate; it was better for the health of my mind.

I need to emphasise that I experienced different weather patterns on this day. I started the journey with the day promising to be a great Mediterranean sunny day. But on entering the forest, the sun disappeared, which was replaced by sporadic rain. This dual-dance between rain and sunshine persisted for most of the morning and early afternoon. Thereafter until I reached my destination Uvinza some time at 10:17 East African Time, it was rain ― sometimes in buckets and sometimes just a drizzle.

One of my major losses the previous evening some place between Simbawanga and Mitumba, my Assault rain suit fell off the bike. It was the first thing I lost on this trip. Yet in spite of this set back, my Firstgear suit was quite adequate in protecting me against the elements.

By this hour, I was riding in Katavi National Park. The rain had stopped. This portion of the road was firm with neither sand nor mud. I was in a sanguine mood and adjusted my speed to 90kms. I recall this because I glanced at the instruments and the needle on the odometer looked like it was stuck on the digits 90. I burst into a clearing where the trees were more or less 100m from the road. I came round a fairly steep bend, and then hell simply broke loose. First it was the yoyo motion of Scorpion, and then she was galloping away, or shall I say she went berserk. I remember crying “dear Lord what is going on!” I was both surprised and very frightened. My heart was racing away too. There were times I was literally airborne: the bike jump to the right side of the road and then to the left, I had throttled down but was terrified to use the brakes given the slipperiness of the road left behind. I applied all my energies in controlling the direction of Scorpion; I wanted her to remain on the road. She swung back to the right into a trench. I succeeded to I wrestle her back onto the road and lo and behold I saw myself acrobatically airborne flying over the handle bars. I don’t know how long it took but I felt my head connect with the ground. I don’t know how many times I rolled; however gravity did not give me the luxury to roll forever. I finally came to a stop. Just when I thought it was over, in a fraction of a second, I saw Scorpion flying as if she had decided to somersault over me; but how? I closed my eyes. At that moment when I should have moved, I didn’t. I was frozen to the spot by what I had seen. I thought it was over. But only God knew the ending. Sometimes you do your best; other times you let the Higher powers take over. It seemed like an eternity before I heard the crush, away from me. How Scorpion’s 250kgs missed me, is something I ponder every day.

I lay there; how long I cannot tell. I knew I was crying because I could feel the warm tears flow over the side of my face. Slowly I sat up feeling my legs, my arms, my spine; I couldn’t be sure but it seemed okay in the interim. Then I just let go. Whoever said men don’t cry. I let them tears wash my cheeks. Well, I had the comfort of knowing I was alone. I did not know why I was cry; but it felt good to cry. I cried even more. But then something was burning; I quickly turned my head and saw smoke at the rear side of Scorpion. I climbed onto my feet so fast that I nearly toppled. My mattress had ‘untethered’ and come in contact with the exhaust pipe; it was that part that was burning.

It was not always easy.  Some of the toughest roads here.

Meanwhile, I noticed that the topbox was flung out of sight. The mirrors were broken, the right indicator was severely cracked, the right hand-guard had snapped off the handlebars, and the panniers had taken much more beating this time acquiring almost a new shape. An accident may seem a long time in happening but it actually happens in nano seconds. The realisation that I was in a forested game park, got me working quickly. It was about late morning ― three tumbles in a row were a painful torture to say the least. This state was exacerbated by the loneliness I was experiencing. Indeed, this was a very lonely road. Since morning, I had come across one truck going the opposite direction and none my way. There were no human beings in sight for miles. I was also feeling very tired, not just physical tiredness but that of these tumbles. I was quite certain that this last one was not my fault. There are things you can be dead sure of in life; this was one of them. A form of depression was creeping over me like a bad spirit was taking over my life. Understandably, after these morning events, every stimulus was surely in place to send me into a severe depression. But with sheer will power I refused to go that route. I was thinking about resuming my journey. But first I had to raise Scorpion.

She was loaded slightly more than 250kgs dead weight. Raising her each time was a pain and at feat: the former because I dreaded it, the latter because I looked forward to advancing the odyssey. I check her for further serious damages; there were none. The crush bars and the panniers had absorbed most of the shock. This was by far the hardest fall I had experienced. It was now that I removed my Arai helmet. It had quite gash on the rear side. It must have been a stone since this part of the road was littered with them. The helmet would simply have to be replaced. And where was my topbox? It was twenty meters behind a bush. I do not doubt that for the second time the topbox nearly killed me. It was time to give it a permanent solution in the next town.

An hour went by before I had everything secured onto Scorpion. I hit the start button and again, she yielded. I shouted “Scorpion” in absolute joy like a ten year old boy. I was still smiling when I pulled away. I was very grateful to God that I was shielded from ending the Odyssey prematurely and unceremoniously. In a pensive mood, I rode on for another 30kms before reaching Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda still shaking, dusty, hungry but alive and well. It was a very close call.

The Road Via Hell

 Peering over my broken screen

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To say I was thoroughly shaken to the marrow is an understatement of my mortal condition on that road. I am not a hero. This sort of incident could spell disaster; I mean real trouble that could have become a nightmare of disproportionate scale to deal with. Our Lord at the Garden of Gethsemane was terrified of the prospects of his suffering. I had joined these ranks. I was genuinely terrified of the scenario of a certain eventuality to come. It has been days since I had communicated with anyone in the ‘civilised world’. Much as I was enjoying the odyssey, “Wake-up”, I told myself. This fleeting transition, as engendered by the fall, from the atmosphere of idealism to realism was precise and brutal. Further persuasion was unnecessary. I heard the message. 

Within the Human anatomy are hardwired mechanisms to cope with any inexorableness although the scope and degree varies for each person. As it were, in spite of my state of affair and still shaking like a leaf in the winds, I reckoned it was to my profit to ride on the crest of the wave rather than its base, for to allow anything to dampen my spirit was like to give an open invitation to Master trouble. I decided without the slightest hesitation that a positive spirit was a better and much preferred companion. It was also reasonable to reduce my speed to 60km per hour, but by the reckoning of subsequent events this was way still too fast as I would soon discover.

Unlike my first tumble, whose cause I had to figure out, I was more or less aware of the circumstances that led to this tumble. It was therefore necessary to carry out some post-mortem.

But in the interim, my mind was preoccupied with my environs. It was a beautiful morning with a clear azure sky, with huge cotton-like clouds adorning the heavens. The air was crisp, clear and clean. It was simply a magnificent countryside ideal for riding. I was entering a wooded area that was not dense with undergrowth. I slowly breathed in the air. I could feel the crispiness as the air rushed through my nostrils. I loved it; I loved the trees; I loved the birds flying across the road; although, sadly one had blindly flown into the bike and got killed. For a while, I allowed nothing to disturb this mood. This is what I needed. Besides, a great spiritual saying teaches us that while we are in consolation, we ought to gather as much of it as we can in preparation for desolation. I suddenly realised that I missed my family, my friends, my colleagues at work and my home. I checked myself momentarily. Where is this 'missing' stuff coming from?

I did not want to think of loneliness. It was not a palatable subject at the moment. Thinking of the reasons that caused my fall was of practical import to me to learn from the experience. As it were, it is rarely true that a single factor will wholly explain an accident. My first suspect was speed. Riding at 100km per hour on such a treacherous road was a massive risk although this was not immediately impressed on my mind when started this leg of the trip. I had also noticed that this red mud apart from being slippery like a mud fish, it also stuck on the tyres. This means that it clogged all the thread patterns thereby affecting traction. In addition, the Anakee II Scorpion was wearing were not suited for this kind of road conditions. I am not an expert but I have wondered whether wearing knobblies would have made any difference. That I had very little traction was an idea that was to be proven right in a short while. But before I discuss this proof, the third suspect was the general condition of the road. Like I said earlier on, this road was recently graded and there was a lot of loose earth which was turned into mud by last night’s rain. In my view these were the causes of my tumble.

I rode on grateful that the odyssey was still on. My speed was reduced even further to below 40kms per hour since the mud was now a real menace. This red mud! All my riding skills were out of the bag: sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, and sometimes my feet helping with the balance. I was grateful that my off-road Garnae riding boots were a very good investment. For the first time I appreciated their true worth, yet they had one terrible weakness: water tended to seep into the boot through some crevices I have not been able discern to-date. The predicament was a health one. If they boots were soaked and wet inside, a whole day was necessary for them to dry. Sometimes I did not have a whole day. I was obliged to wear them wet. But bacteria, leather, moisture, socks and flesh are a bad combination. The first sign of this trouble was the petrifying reek. It was so potent that it has the potential to knock you senseless by merely depriving you of oxygen.

Ammonia is nothing compared to smelly boots. I remember, in 1979, I was visiting my friend Maloba who was studying at the same primary school with me. His elder brother Wekesa was also visited by a friend who was a soldier. He arrived while we were all in the parlour playing Scrabble. That smell was like nothing I had ever come across. At first everyone was polite about it, I looked at Maloba and we knowingly looked at the offending pair of legs. Soon everyone was at the risk of fainting, for this was not just about the overwhelming acrid smell, but there was most probably a chemical reaction producing a noxious gas. Shortly, I developed a headache. The poor soldier was soon dispatched to wash his boots and feet. Considering the matter in retrospect, I think the soldier boy was not even aware of the problem.

It was while engrossed in these thoughts that I went down the third time. At least I saw this one coming. I said that I was riding on the crest of the road. The simplest way to imagine the shape of this road is to imagine the keel of a boat, albeit a gentle one. Well, there was a truck coming in the opposite direction. I always give way to these trucks which I did with this one. I was riding downhill and battled to bring the bike to a gentle stop but somehow it was a battle. I went down. It was an insignificant fall; a fall nevertheless. The tuckers reached me as I was going down. They drove around me and kept going.

I realised that I needed a healthy respect for this mud-road. In less than 15kms, I was down the second time. I was determined to continue my trip, nothing, not the state of the road was going to stop me.

The Road Via Hell

The Scenary I 

It had rained hard the previous night as a result the conditions of the road had changed.  This implied that the riding strategies would equally have to be adapted.  It was the first time I was going to ride in these wretched circumstances: mud, rain, sand, hills and valley coupled with distance, loneliness, fatigue all fermenting in the same pot at the same time.  Unbeknown to me, the balance of the odyssey, my courage, endurance, physical fitness, was going to be tampered with: stretched and, tested beyond anything I had experienced in a novel way.  It is for this reason I called it the “Road from Hell”.  The real difference is that I emerged from this hell shaken but grateful to be alive.

The Sun was glorious waking up from its sleep; its golden arrows streaked the Eastern skies making it glow in a melange of beautiful strange orange-golden colour.  The problem with this east at Mitumba was that it was not the one at Jozi.  It was a relative east, to borrow from Einstein.  Yet I knew it was east since the sun always rises from there, and nothing in recent science had suggested that this thesis had changed.  But what kept me wondering even more was whether our sense of direction has something to do with the Circadian Rhythms?  As I pondered these matters, I brushed my teeth and doused my face with cold water.  This was inevitably the third day I was doing without a bath; it was alright.  

In spite of the experience I had gained over the days packing the bike, it still took me about an hour to tie-down every pieces of luggage.  As usual the local citizens were milling around me.  I know I can start a conversation with any one and talk about atoms, politics, the laws of supply and demand, enzymes, cooking or my favourite theme ―bikes, yet there were instances when I would give preference to being a monk ― a few moments in the morning.  It helps shuffle stuff in my mind: meditate or whatever name you give to it.  Right now I was thinking about the road ahead, yet it was impossible to avoid my hosts.  Rashid was here to introduce his wife to me: Huyu ndio shemeji, he said (It is a complicated to translate a local language directly into English since some of the words have no equivalent.  In this case, the literal meaning was brother here is our sister-in-law).  In the way he had said it, he regarded me as a brother, member of the family, and thinking about it later I was amazed by the extent of the inclusivity of our African languages, of which I speak ‘treasurably’ but modestly a good many of them and understand by extension the various dialects.

It was time to go ― the chief.  I had to request his permission to depart.  After a while, I found him among women who were sorting rice, either for a big feast or for the eating house.  I said to him I had slept very well. I inquired how he had slept.  After exchanging salutations, I said I was very grateful that he had hosted me.  I prayed that he will be kind to many more who come his way, and that I was asking for his permission to continue my journey.  He said indeed he rendered me his blessings and that I should travel with Allah.  As was my custom, I slipped a gift secretly in his hands. He said he accepted it and was very pleased.  I said I would come back one day, nearly letting a tear roll down my cheek.  I had already been warming the motor for about ten minutes and with a crowed to bid me well, I rode off in a very jovial mood saying Asante!  Asante! (Thank you).

The Scenary II

That was my first mistake.  Riding off in a jovial mood, now that seems odd to say.  It was not a bad thing in itself.  The problem was it clouded my immediate judgement to details of the changed road conditions.  This might seem a contradiction but it is how it happened.  But I rode off in same attitude I had ridden yesterday: speed, not exactly understanding that the rain has made the terrain a dangerous place.  It was the volcanic soil that is as slippery as oil.  As I began to breathe in the air, I began encountering pools of water on the road.  My good senses advised me to slow down: I climbed from 120kms to just below a 100kms.  This portion of the road evinced recent road improvement activities.  The road had a convex shape and my idea was to ride on highest part of the convex presuming it to be hard, safe and would provide traction.  In the middle of the road I pushed on desiring to cover as much distance as was possible today. 

It happened without warning.  My second tumble came to pass this moment.  Replaying the scene in my mind later, it was like in the movies, the frames had been slowed down a thousand times, the bike turned vertical from travelling horizontally, and begun to lean to my right at the same time sliding to my left and reducing the 180 degrees faster than I could blink. I separated from the bike and was thrown clear into the middle of the road.  I heard my screen snap, and then silence for even Scorpion had switched off.   I lay there waiting.  I don’t know what I was waiting for, just waiting fully conscious.  I was still in the vicinity of human habitation but it was early in the morning about 10kms from where I spent the night. 

The Road Continued after my Second Tumble

In times of tragedy, and I think this is true of Haiti in the wake of the earthquake, one of the sweetest sounds you can ever hear or long for is the human voice.  I don’t remember whether my eyes were closed or open but the voiced said “pole” (I sympathise or emphasise with you) and she held my muddied gloved right hand.  Slowly I sat up.  No pain, good I thought!  I moved my legs and hands no pain, good! I leaned forward and supported by her I stood up.  All this was happening in silence.  I was covered in the red mud from the top of my helmet to the toe of my boots.  It was like someone had soaked me in the red mud.  My riding gear is normally impressive, at least in the photos.  The red colour had replaced the black and yellow.  I could not stifle a chuckle.  Then I burst out laughing thinking that even my own mother would not have recognised me in my new outfit.  I said to the Angel Lady Asante!  I remember mumbling something like “journeys are sometimes like this”.

I inspected Scorpion.  It seems she has sustained some damage.  The screen was broken from the fame holding it into several pieces: it was irreparable.  I retrieved the road licence which was stuck some place on the inside.  I stood Scorpion on her feet.  The evidence was clear: the aluminium panniers had absorbed most of the shock and had acquired a new shape.  In addition, more reflectors had fallen off.  Scorpion herself was unscathed.  I stood her on her side stand and waited for her to take some breath then hit the Start black button.  She roared into life without hesitation.  That sound was really uplifting, the second sweetest sound I had heard that day.  I could not hold back a tear that decided to roll down my cheek.  I realised our bond was a very special one. I was glad the helmet was on to shield my face.  I had removed it temporally to clean the mud off the visor.  I shuddered to imagine Scorpion not starting; what would happen?  I mean not start in a serious way. I was about 3500kms in the middle of nowhere.  I believed at that moment that I sat on Scorpion, waved and rode-off.  That was the first of the more than fifteen falls I would experience that day on a stretch of about 280 kms.  I normally cover 100kms in 50 minutes.  Today was a new experience; I would spend exactly 15hours and 17 minutes on this stretch of road, for hell had just broken lose, but and it is a big one, I knew that the Lord was travelling with me as pillion.

A Night at Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

I remained sitting on the bike for about thirty minutes, the motor idling and the bike on parking lights.  My heart, as it often did, suggested to me that this was the place to stop for the night.  I waited for the owners of Mitumba to come to me.  Anywhere I stopped; there was never lack of people who came to scrutinize this unusual visitor, to satisfy their curiosity, to fondle the bike – that is what they did. About ten people were around me.   It had one advantage; it always gave me the occasion to start a conversation.  In this case, I requested to know if there was a headman or chief of the area.  It was a very small trading post.  In chorus, they pointed to a shop directly in front of me.  When they learnt that I speak fluent Kiswahili, they said Karibu, which means welcome. He is in there, they said.  I promptly dismounted from the bike and approached the shop. 

 An African  A Market Day -- Bananas

Shikamoo baba I cried.  This is a Kiswahili greeting to a person of respect (elder).  In his case I added baba, (daddy to spice it up), thus elevating the respect I was paying him to even a higher notch.  Shikamoo has Arabic origins and can be translated as I hold your feet.  After the salutations, he asked me to sit.  I patiently waited until he had finished his business for audience.  He eventually sat beside me and in this manner, I introduced myself, my purpose and why I wanted to see him.  He was a very kind man in his late forties.  Having understood my purpose he promptly showed me two places where I could pitch tent.  He said the one nearest to his house was the best since I would be in his compound.  I said I speak fluent Kiswahili and I also understand the cultures of the region. For this reason I did not find it difficult to blend with the folks of the town.  After parking scorpion and pitching tent, I went to find company and some food.   Rashid was a citizen of the area I invited him to join me.

  A Market Day -- Pinapples

These people are amiable folks and terribly welcoming; it was like I had come home.  We sat in small eating place and ordered grilled chicken and Ugali (pap or maize meal).  As we waited, we sipped Kilimanjaro, the local bottled beer.  Two extremely beautiful ladies joined us.  I subsequently learnt that the village headman was their uncle.  They operated the eating house.  I noticed it was predominantly Muslim.  On this note it is necessary to point out that one reason why Islam is very successful is because it tends to blend and fuse with the local culture; this makes it appealing.  Islam has blended so well with Swahili as a culture since the days when the Arab dhows came to the East African coast to trade in ivory, spices, slaves and the like.  In fact in my own social origins, to have a cousin who is a moslem is common place.  It was easy for me to notice all this marriage in the surroundings around me.  I need to mention that Kiswahili as a language is spoken widely in the Great Lake Region (Tanzania, Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Congo (DRC), Burundi, Somalia and parts of Southern Sudan) although in a multiplicity of dialects. 

As conversation flowed oiled by Kilimanjaro, we spoke about a variety of subjects: marriage, relationships, and politics.  My favourite theme was education.  I learnt that my host was married.  He said he had three boys.  I am a teacher and naturally was inclined to speak about the value of education to the generation of tomorrow.   I was able to extract a promise from my host that he would educate these boys and the ones yet to arrive, for he had indicated that he was going to have two more children.  Although I was tired and would have loved the company of my tent; presently, I loved the company of these ordinary folks.  I had become one of them at least in attitude.  They spoke from their hearts, the simplicity of their manner, the generosity of the rural environment was way different from what I was used to in the metropolitan of Johannesburg.  For me it was a way of reclaiming what was lost or rather what the metropolitan had dispossessed me.   I knew that with wide ears and open eyes there was something to learn from them folks.  

It was the coming of a storm that signaled my time to depart and take up residence in my tent.  And so it rained so hard that night in a manner I had not experienced during the entire trip so far.  It was like the heavens had simply opened all its taps.   I was secure and nothing disturbed my peace; I simply drifted off into the land of sleep.

Into the Heart of Western Tanzania

To Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

When I set out on this odyssey, numerous friends prayed for the success of my trip.  I knew it was blessed by the Devine and that it was meant to be.  There are many reasons for saying this but an outstanding reason was that this trip was initially planned for December 2008, it simply failed.  Although everything had been taken care of, it seems certain mental preparations had not been met adequately.  I subsequently realised this in retrospect.  I supplied a bona fide but incomplete explanation to explain this state of affair on the Wilddog Forum.

Saint Ireneus once said that God works through nature.  I am not a theologian and will not give treaties on this subject, but my simple faith demonstrated this in a very ordinary manner.  I did everything as far as it was humanly possibly to prepare for the initial trip but it simply failed.  How many times does something fail to work in your favour but you are hard-headed and insistent that it must go on as planned?  How many times do you ever listen to yourself and the circumstances surrounding you?  In the subsequent preparations, which preparations were even better including trying to arrange for Travel Insurance from a reputable firm, one day after a long delay and on the eve of my departure, I was inconveniently informed that my trip was too risky and could not be insured.  In short, I departed without this facility.  I had done lots of travel preparations by trying to cover every conceivable contingency.  My Wilddog Forum colleagues were instrumental to this end either by way of advice, such as from the late Ibele Kruger, supplies from Kurt Beine among others, actual work on the bike, from my buddy Andy.  Among others, TravelGravel, for instance, sent her phone number saying that if ever I wanted to communicate she would provide this avenue.  It is not possible to enumerate every act of kindness that was offered but suffice to say that God works in mysterious ways.  Of all the preparations I did, neither my friends nor I remembered to think about the appropriate tyres for the trip – knobblies.  I had discussed every detail for most of the trip but hardly anything about tyres and even where I did it was more out of curiosity.  For some reason I assumed that Anakees would do.  As I pointed out previously they are good tyres but only to a certain point.  At this point of the trip these tyres were a none-issue. This oversight would result into many tumbles so that after  the fifteenth event, I stopped counting.

Just passed Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda

I did not spend much time in Sumbawanga.  I rode down its main street – the only tarmac portion of the road – filled up on petrol and headed for Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda about 250km to the north.  A full tank would cover this distance.  I wish to alert the reader that petrol in this part of the world was approximately two dollars a litre. As I left that town behind me, the sun was beginning to go over the horizon; I was anxious to reach Mpanda before it was dark.  On tarmac this was an easy trip, but on dirt road my first real test of my riding skills on this sort of terrain was an ordeal.  As I gathered speed, I realised that the road was not as firm as the one I had just ridden on into Sumbawanga.  A close look determined that a grader had recently levelled this road.  This had many implications such as lots of sand collected together but disguised.  I could tell from the way Scorpion was dancing on the road that there was a lot of loose earth beneath my tyres.  In addition, if it were to rain as it did that night, the entire road become one big pool of mud that would make it very treacherous  to ride on.  Towards the equator the sun sets quickly.  I decided to maintain a decent speed to cover good ground before it was dark.  I was also worried by the fact that Katavi National Park was between me and Mpanda.  I decided that the first town I came across, I would call it a day.  

A Land Cruiser was in front of me and the amount of dust it was raising was blinding me, and some of it was entering my air vents in the helmet and obviously my mouth. When I had a chance to pass it, they never saw me again.  It was not until 7:45 that I arrived at small town called Mitumba; by then it was pitch black; I could not see my hand in front of my face. I was tired, hungry but glad that I had enjoyed this portion of the trip although it had started in the morning with a tumbled. 

To be continued…

Livingstone Falls

Livingstone the Falls- Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls- Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Livingstone the Falls-Zambian Side

Welcome to Tanzania

 The Road Ahead toward Sumbawanga

I am now riding on a typical African ‘dirt’ road: rugged, portholes, sand, loose stones, and generally not maintained.  Let me mention that I did not have knobblies for tyres; I had Anakee 2 which had handled the paved road surface as well as on firm dirt road so far very well, but that is about it.  The story takes on a new twist when I begun to encounter different dirt road conditions as you will soon learn.  In hindsight, and ever since I returned from this trip, I changed to 50/50 tyres.  These are good both for paved and unpaved roads to some extent.

Part of this trip was to relish the riding on different road surfaces.   This being the aim, my first encounter on the dirt road in spite of my first tumble had wetted my appetite for more.  I picked up speed gradually climbing to 120km per hour.  I man the machine and Scorpion mans the road, it is a perfect scene for the duo to perform a perfect rode dance.   It is about 2:00 pm, my destination is Sumbawanga a small dusty town located about 200km from the border.  To say that the stretch from Mbala (Zambia) to Kasesya border post (Tanzania) was a bad road is an understatement.  It was the beginning of the road from Hell. If truth be told then it is that I tumbled so many times that after the 15^th tumble, I stopped counting.   Well the next stretch from Kasesya for the next 200 kms was firm dirt road with loose stones and lots of dust.  It was thrilling to leave a cloud of dust trailing behind me.   You see, the little joys of life are in the little links that make life worthwhile and leave ones face creases with a smile.   My delight was to be on this odyssey with all its attendant factors.   

A Market Day -- Pawpaws

Although riding required 110% of my attention to which I committed myself to the extent that I decided not to listen to music from an Ipod a generous friend had lent me, I always allowed myself a little serious thought.  I did not want this to be a trip just for its sake: the fact that I was riding alone was a great source of pleasure.  It allowed me considerable measure of time to be alone and therefore room for some deep thought on many personal issues.  2009 was particularly a good year if such a thing can be said.  Part of the ride was to say thank you.  I was grateful to the Divine that I had received many blessings one of which was that I had landed a permanent job as a lecturer.  Yet in the midst of all these joy and laughter was raw pain, heart rending pain that left me sometimes numb and asking “why” to which I did not have answers.   I will return to this point shortly.

In the meantime, I wish to say that all my life I had spent time doing things for people, and one of them was to seeing my 4 siblings through school.  My mother had died when I was only 21.  That is the age when you want your mother around since it is the point when you are making some life-time decisions.  And even though you make the decisions, you need a trusted one to listen, to endorse, to question and even sometimes to remonstrate with you.  It is that time of transition from being a teen to being an adult.  It is an important time that makes or breaks you.  I was very close to my mom; she was my best friend and mentor.  I trusted her; I confided in her; I depended on her.  One day she summoned me to her bed side in hospital.   Without much ado she said to me, you are going to school – I was a just beginning my year as a sophomore – you will not find me when you return next vacation.  To cut the long story short, that is how it happened.  I remember the day vividly.  One day I met my neighbour Alfred on a street in Kampala – it was a clear hot and dusty Kampala day.  He called me by name and offered condolences for the passing of my mother.   I remember sitting by the roadside and crying like a baby.  

In our discussion at the bedside, mom’s desire was that I marry a beautiful lady and have a family.  I wanted to join the priesthood; it was therefore necessary to obtain her blessings.   She had gone silent for an hour when I disclosed my heart’s desires.  In the end she said no.  I had to take care of my siblings when she was gone. 

In 1993 I found and feel in love with a girl I adored so much.  Juliet, for that was her name, was everything a man desires in a woman: kind, hard-working, intelligent, beautiful, funny, and the list is endless.  I visited Juliet on the 24^th of December 1993.  That was the last time I saw her alive.  She was tragically shot and killed on the 1^st of Jan 1994. She was the second beloved person I was lost in a space of two years.   What was the meaning of these happenings?  First it was mom and now it was Juliet.  I cried so much until I had to beg God to stop the tears.  The tear stopped; I never cried again about Juliet to this day. 

In June 1995, I joined the Jesuits for priesthood training – for the next eleven years I was in the training for priesthood against my mother’s will. 

In 2006, I quit.  In October 2008 I got engaged to a Xhosa girl – a great person, very intelligent, a great soul.  We planned to marry on 28^th Feb 2010, but alas it was not to be!   She told me one day, she was not interested any more in the relationship.  She left the engagement ring on the table.  I subsequently disposed of it at Livingstone Falls.  It was painful – but what could be more painful than the loss of mom and the loss of Julie?  I had to learn to live with such pain.  Lots of friends gave me strength.  In this manner, delving deep in my life experiences, I covered ground to reach Sumbawanga about mid-afternoon without realising that I had covered nearly 200kms.  But my pains were not yet finished; a new wave was waiting somewhere in the realm of the unknown.

Arriving at Sumbawanga