My Burundian Experiences

Although Rumonge was a large town by Burundian standards, I easily found Chez David. It was a large building in Victorian style in the middle of the business enclave. Since most folks in town seem to know it, I assumed it was a major hotel. It did not have running water, and electricity worked only for half the night. Despite this shortcoming, it was clean, well run, safe and with an exciting night life

A View of Lake Tanganyika From Burundi

 Papa Libanga who welcomed me hailed from the DRC; he was the receptionist as well as the manager — a very pleasant man in his late 50s. After securing a room, I had one thing on mind — to stuff myself. I told the chef I wanted a typical Burundian dish. It turned out to be my favourite grilled fish presumably from Lake Tanganyika served with baked potatoes. While the meal was cooking, I took a bath. It was a cold evening, so I requested for hot water which was delivered to my room in a plastic bucket. After a while, I returned to the foyer to wait for my fish. I took a look around. This included sampling some Burundian lager — Primus — in the biggest bottle I had yet set eyes on. I chose a strategic spot overlooking the foyer. I sat unaccompanied taking in details of the surrounding environs.

As it were, French, Kiswahili and Kirundi were the languages spoken so communication was possible with the first two. It was the first time I was in Burundi. Geographically, it was a very beautiful country lush green rolling mountains as far as the eye could see. The good roads provided for fabulous riding, which was what I was here to do. The people were very kind and generous.

I must confess that it was the country I least spent time with the local folks. But like Rwanda, its people had a fair share of suffering — the Hutu-Tutsi hegemony that had unfolded over the decades culminating in the death of President Melchior Ndadaye at the outbreak of the Rwandan Genocide. Vice President Jacob Zuma had brokered peace between the government and the rebels; the truce seems to be holding. It is this that enabled me to travel through the country that was supported by South African National Defence Force (SANDF) soldiers on peace keeping mission.

In art of living together (social contract), as long as one group of people seeks political, ideological, economic, ethnic or social supremacy over the other group, whether this is intentional or accidental, the very fact of this disparity is a blueprint for trouble sooner or later. This is the essence of Karl Marx’s analysis of societies beginning from the feudal societies to the capitalist societies. This primacy might manifest itself in different forms yet it basic character remains the same — power- control over the other. One needn’t look far in the annals of history to find plenty of evidence — the most recent being the genocide in the region of Darfur in the Sudan and of course Rwanda-Burundi. I was so occupied by these thoughts that I failed to notice that my meal had been waiting for me for sometime. So famished, I tackled the food — hmm the fish was absolutely divine! The best grilled fish I had eaten in a while; it was washed down with another helping of Primus. Fed and so worn out, I crawled into bed. My eye lids were so heavy with sleep; it was like lead was tied to them. The last thought in my mind was the appreciation of the day. It had been a most satisfying day. And then I passed out.

I was up early as was my custom. I had slept soundly. I felt refreshed and ready to ride another day. I had a hot bath out of plastic container. I had little to pack since most of my luggage had remained on the bike.

I rode off thinking I was most blessed to be riding this route. I had so far driven in lands I never thought in my wildest imagination I would walk one day. There was no doubt that Africa was a blessed continent: the people its greatest assets, the fruits of the land, the climate, the sun were some of its joys. Little wonder then that that historians claim it to be the cradle of human kind.

 

On Burundian Highway towards Rwanda

A couple of years ago in autumn, I travelled to Spain for a conference. I also used the occasion to tour Western Europe. I flew to London where I spent some time discovering the queen’s land, and eventually ended up in Seville. Following the conference, I visited the countries bordering Spain on mainland Europe. It was then while walking on a street in Portugal that it transpired that Europe would never be a home for me. It was a gut feeling. Make no mistake; Europe in many ways is a desirable place to be, but I knew it was not meant to be for me. And so going through Burundi today was the confirmation of my thought of years ago.

Lake Tanganyika was on my left and across its waters was the DRC. It did not seem like a terribly wide lake. One thing was distinctly obvious that the lake was sitting in the valleys of the mountains that surrounded it. It was the most beautiful sight. I wondered whether Burundians thought the same as I did. As I rode towards Bujumbura I stopped so many times to gaze and get pleasure from this amazing beauty.

I had been riding for 50 kms when I espied a woman with a small child on her back a common means of transport for children on the African continent. On her head were beautifully arranged clusters of ripe banana in a basket, the likes of which can only be found East Africa. It struck me how this traditional advertisement was so effective that I had notice it a distance away. I did not have much space on the bike but I thought I would buy five bananas for breakfast. When I enquired the price of a cluster, she said it was two hundred Burundian francs. Well I needed five fingers only. I gave her a thousand francs. I said she should keep the change but give me only five bananas. It was about 8:00 o’clock, and in East Africa it a common belief that if luck comes your way in the morning the rest of the day will be blest. It is impossible to describe the totality of the joy on her face. I had virtually paid her for the entire basket but only taken five bananas. The small crowd that had gathered thought she was so lucky. I believed that in giving, I am also given. I had received so much and yet so much more was yet to come. I rode off a very cheerful man and with five bananas to fill my stomach.

As I went down the highway, there were soldiers either in pairs or small groups. Burundi was just emerging out of war; this explained the presence of soldiers everywhere. In spite of this scenario, it never occurred to me for an instance that my own safety was at risk. My mind was entirely applied to riding and that was my preoccupation. Of all the countries I rode through, Burundi is the one that gave me the most pleasure. Riders will be familiar with ‘twisties’. It was like you were going uphill or downhill in a circular motion. In high speed this was pure bliss. My ex-fiancée had once described this experience as ‘orgasmic’; I couldn’t agree less. Scorpion was up to the task and I matched her with equal enthusiasm. This might sound dangerous and it was for most of the part; yet, the thrill of beating drivers thinking that their big Land Cruisers could out-compete a big bike on those twisties merely added to this experience. Scorpion was not just any bike, she was built for this purpose and she was in hands of a capable and experienced rider. In our love experience, every time I massage her into taking those twisties, she yielded with passion and without reservation. Battered as she was, she gave me the orgasmic experience.

I could come behind a driver and just hung there. Some drivers would not let me pass but instead increase their speed. The way a car handles twisties is very different from the way a bike does; twisties are more forgiving on a bike. I would lean the bike and still take a corner at 120kms or more. It was scary; very scary but there-in was thrill. I would pass those drivers and they wouldn’t be able to tell what had passed never to see me again. In this manner I reached Bujumbura.

Just before Bujumbura, I was stopped at a check point. It reminded me of the 70s during Idi Amin’s Uganda, of dangerously looking men hooded behind dark glasses typical of the secret service. This one asked me question after question and checked every paper. When he finally let me go I was in a very bad state of mind. Well I did not know why, but I thought that era was gone where men in glasses were a law unto themselves. For this reason, I filled up my tank and left Bujumbura immediately for Ngozi, Kirundo and finally towards Kigali.

At the border I could see signs that the East African Community (EAC) was alive and working. Burundi and Rwanda were the new members of the community. They shared the same building which was brand new. One side harboured the Burundian immigration, customs etc., while the other half was for Rwanda. The services were efficient and in no time I was riding towards Kigali on a brand new road; it was about noon.

Crossing the Frontier Into Burundi

 Frontier Crossing

Northern Tanzania is without a doubt a living Eden. Yet the mud and the rain were seriously encumbering my ability to fully exploit my enjoyment of the scenery, since riding was reduced to ensuring that I survive the slippery roads. I reached Kasulu resembling the colour of the road I had been travelling. My immediate concern was to find a mechanic to change my brake pads. I had, by God’s grace, just covered some 70kms of the some of the slipperiest roads I had ever travelled on almost none functional brakes. I came across a young man who boasted that he was the only mechanic in town who could change my brakes pads. I was wary of a boasting mechanic; I simply rode-off leaving him speculating whether he had said something that offended me.

Even The Women Got interested and took a Moment to Observer

The kindly folks of Kasulu directed me to another mechanic who changed the brakes in less than 10 minutes for a fee of 5$. Again, a crowed of young men around me was massive. I rode away thinking: Was this mass of loitering young men not a recipe for crime? In Johannesburg, if I came across a group of teens I would change direction. One evening, with my friend Horman who was visiting from Durban, I went out to shoot a sunset panorama view of Johannesburg on Kensington memorial hill. While on the hill one can see anyone approaching it from any side. I kept an eye on a group of young men who were on the road below. When they came up the hill, I was scared stiff. I packed my gear and we hurriedly went downhill on the same route they were using to come up. We knew we had to keep calm. The only weapon we wielded was the Silk tripod weighting 3kgs. It was a formidable weapon. I carried it in such a way to leave no doubt that I would use it in self-defence. At 6.1” tall, I must have looked menacing. One factor was in our favour namely, the speed with which we packed and hurried downhill. I could see the dismay on their faces. I think they had not counted on how quickly we would respond to this perceived threat. I held my breath when we went past them. One of them mumble something, but I was so focussed on getting away from them that I kept going. A Congolese friend had been recently knifed in the back and died of his wound. In Johannesburg one will get killed for a mobile phone of less than 150 rand. These were familiar stories. We did not want to presume anything. When we reached the main road at the bottom of the hill, to our horror, we saw that the teens were following us. Our hunches were right; it was a suspect group. We bolted as fast as our legs could carry us.

A Very Scary Moment Going Downhill

Preoccupied with these thoughts I was just hitting the outskirts of Kasalu when I came across a police mounted roadblock. It was not the first roadblock I had come across, but it was the first where I was asked for my international driver’s licence. It was a youthful policeman making this demand. In my experience, youthful police officers keep the law to the letter with zeal and zest in the name of serving mother country. I have always had problems with them. In this state of mind, I took my time to dismount opened my topbox and asked him what other documents he wanted. He said, “Just the licence”. I looked him into the eyes and asked in his language whether he thought I could possibly come all this way without a licence.

I was not interested in his answer. I was soon on my way. A few kilometres down the road, I became aware of a noise from my chain. I knew it was so dry hence the noise. I stopped to lubricate it. Once again, I was on my way riding through beautiful rolling hills towards Mabanda the Burundian frontier about 90kms away. The road improved so that for the first time in two days I could ride at 70kms per hour stopping only to photograph the scenery. The rains were also forgiving and never fell until Christmas day. But my woes were not yet over — for the roads were still in a fearsome condition. I would meet with the mother of these conditions soon after the border crossing.

Today was the seven days since embarking on my odyssey. I was glad that after two difficult days of riding I was going to sleep in a different place and in a different country. This piece of tiding was incredibly pleasant, and so in a cheerful state of mind I resolutely set to complete the rest of the trip.

We kept trying to Go Down Slope

I arrived at Manyovu boarder (Tanzania) about 2:30pm. It was the only place I was asked for my vaccination card on the entire trip. Custom’s clearance was quickly settled. I was in such a jovial mood that I parted with 10$, ‘donating’ it to the custom officer. I think it was the joy of leaving Tanzania behind, but in truth he was also a very affable character who genuinely asked me about my trip. I cleared immigration and the last of my problems started immediately.

Mabanda was 500m from Manyovu. To get there, I had to go round a bend and downhill at about a 420. To compound this state of affair, a Chinese company constructing this road had recently dug it up. Since it had been raining all morning, there was thick mud everywhere. Even the custom official said that it would be a miracle if I crossed to Burundi.

As I came round the bend, a group of about ten 10-15 year old offered to help for a fee. How could I possibly refuse! They attached themselves to the bike on both sides and the controlled slide downhill begun; that is how it felt. They pushed a little at a time. In one sense it was like skating but at very low speed. All the while I felt like my heart was beating in my throat afraid that any time the entire bunch would end down-hill in a heap and possible destruction. But these kids were adept at what they were doing. I put my faith in their little hands. But my faith was tested for the first time on this journey. It was very scary to say the least. It took us close to 45 minutes to descend to the bottom of the hill. At last I could breathe a sigh of relief. I looked back and could only shake my head in wonderment: How did we make it to the valley! I settled my bill and off I road about 5minutes to Mabanda.

Covered in mud, I knew I was an awful sight by the way the soldiers at the border looked at me. I had last spoken serious French in 1997 in the DRC. I was now in a French speaking territory and did not know if I still remembered any of it. You know how sometimes you speak confidently thinking you are saying something sensible while you are unknowingly using obscene language or simply giving a wrong answer. I remember my Ethiopian friend Tesfay who was asked “Comment tu t'appelles?” (What is your name?). And he answered cheerfully: “Je ne bois pas de bière”. (I don’t drink any beer). This was hilarious and we often joked about it for a long time. Bonjour! I called out. “Passéport sil vous plait” the immigration offer requested. My passport was stamped and I was soon on way. I thought I would ride to Bujumbura but that was not to be as you will soon discover. I also had to clear customs at Nyanza about 30kms away which was my immediate destination.

The Misty Mountain Side of Burundi

I was able to keep a constant pace of 80kms per hour. I arrived at Nyanza at 4:40. I paid customs 30$. I met an elderly man probably in his early 60s who was extremely polite. Once he knew where I was coming and going. He said my son welcome home. He took me to his place and had me wash some of the mud off. He made some tea and only after having it, did he allow me to go. I obtained some Burundian Franca and I headed for Rumonge. My host told me that I could not go to Bujumbura since the road closes at night. He also gave me the name of a lodge, Chez David, where I was to reside for the night.

Driving along Lake Tanganyika In Burundi

I glanced at the GPS; I was riding some 2400m above sea level. Up in the mountains and looking below was a breath taking sight. The mist in some places was so thick that I could hardly see more than 10m in front of me. As I descended down the mountain, the tarmac road turned towards Bujumbura along Lake Tanganyika. It was a delightful sight. The best part of it, however, was the hero’s welcome I seem to receive in every little town along the way. Everywhere I passed I was given an ovation. I couldn’t help throwing up my leather gloved hand to wave as long as I could and put on an air of a hero. After days of tumbling, my welcome to Burundi was befitting. I was in the glow of merriment. In addition, it was thrilling to learn that I was the first rider on a V-strom to visit this part of the world.

Sheer Beauty

Remember Burundi in most of the 90s and recent times was in a state of war which eventually subsided with the signing of the Arusha Peace Accord chaired by the then South African second in command: Vice President Jacob Zuma. But peace was still elusive; thus, explaining why I could not ride to Bujumbura in the night. I was relieved to reach Rumonge tired but very pleased with the last part of the odyssey.

Northern Tanzania

 Changing Brake Pads

I had slept deep and sound with very few cares. Riding from Mitumba to Uvinza had been the toughest ride of my life. It tested my will, my physical endurance, my riding skills as well as Scorpion’s abilities as a machine of exceptional engineering. Yet, it was also the most adventurous and exhilarating. I was happy to be doing something close to my heart notwithstanding the perils involved. I refuse to live a boring life. I refuse to drift like a piece of wood downstream after a heavy down pour. I have never been a drifter. I have resolutely chosen the direction I have wanted my life to take at every turn. My secondary school history teacher use to say: “Every individual writes his own history and that is what the world reads”. This history emanates from the choices one makes be they good or bad choices. When I set out on this odyssey, the support from my friends, funs and family was a mélange of different emotions and attitudes. Charles my brother had categorically said no: in his view it was too risky. Little did he know that a company that takes out travel insurance would echo his very words. Some of my very Christian friends had reiterated similar sentiments. The response from my riding partners on the Wild Dog Forum ranged from very hot to lukewarm. I could sense extreme eagerness and support to palpable fear and indifference for a variety of reasons, but there-in-lies the difference. There are folks who wait for things to happen to their lives. That has never been my style. I have always made things happen to my life. When a travel insurance company declined to insure me claiming it was too risky an investment, I did not weep and mourn. I simply set out on the Odyssey; here I was today at Uvinza. I was in an upbeat spirit and in the mood for the next leg of the trip. I had remained in bed for a while assessing the previous journey. In sixteen years of riding I had as many tumbles in one day on the same stretch of road. I chuckled remembering the consternation, the panic, the tears, the darkness, the rain, the lonely road, the exasperating insects and the fact that I was drenched from the neck to the toe of my boots.

I think part of my excitement was to do with my new destination. It would be the first time I was visiting Burundi, which was about 150kms northwards. I was looking forward to the ride with anticipation. I refused to take anything for granted. 120kms was apparently a short distance but yesterday’s experience had firmly convinced me not to underestimate the terrain and the elements. Much as I love Tanzania, I had had enough of its beauty, the hospitality of its people, roads and air. I had one thing on my mind — to get out. So I planned on setting-off at the earliest opportunity. I was feeling hungry; I had to eat something.

-->Beautiful Rolling Hills of Northern Tanzania

The sky was overcast and it did not promise a bright sunny day. I had this premonition that the ride was going to be equally tough. Before I went to inspect the bike, I placed an order for chapati (some sort of pancake made of wheat flour, oil water, and salt (sometimes sugar)) and tea. When the chapati is well made and it is a delicacy incomparable in its own right.

In the meantime, I checked my front brakes. I was shocked by what I saw. The front brake pads were non-existent. A chill went down my spine like a bolt of lightning imagining the unimaginable. I lost my appetite. The imperative was to replace them. I loaded Scorpion, and wasted no time in setting-off to look for a mechanic.

The roads were fearfully slippery. Western Tanzania is situated on the western flank of the rift valley. As a consequence, the soil texture is volcanic. This makes it exceedingly slippery when wet. I was in no mood to explore Uvinza, and so did not see much of it. As Uvinza disappeared behind me, the road led to Kigoma, a port on Lake Tanganyika.

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My Favourite Green Banana and our mode of transport

Scorpion was hurt from the many tumbles. She had some mechanical problems whose gravity was impossible to assess at this point. For example, there was a rocking noise emerging from the below the instrument panel that grew progressively loud on a corrugated road. It took me another 1000kms before I discovered the source of this noise. I looked several times but could not figure out where the noise. The second problem was the brake pads, which I intended to replace either at Kasulu

As I embarked on the trip, I was debating whether I should go to Kigoma. To be absolutely sure that I was not putting myself in jeopardy, I stopped to ask about the road conditions to Kigoma. The answer and my two mechanical problems dissuaded me from heading to that direction, for I was not looking forward to getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. Kasulu had my undivided attention — a northern town, about 60kms away. I reached a junction and turned northwards away from Kigoma. I soon realised that I was in for real trouble. A grader had recently tried to improve the road surface. The problem was that it loosened more earth, so that when it rained the road became one massive mud puddle. I had learnt my lessons the previous day but this in no way lessened the hazards waylaying me. On a certain portion of the road the mud was so thick and sticky that even a Land Cruiser that was following me out of tacit agreement had difficulty navigating the stretch. It was not surprising that the 4km stretch took me two hours to cross but only because I employed two men to hold Scorpion on each side, literally walking her.

As it were, it remained overcast all morning and early afternoon, sometimes rain fell intermittently. The road to Kasulu was thickly wooded. During the early part of the journey, I met hundreds of folks going to the market being a Friday. I would have loved to spend some time at the market but the rain and the mud dampened my interest. So I plodded on. I don’t know how many times I tumbled. I was no longer interested in the statistical details. But one notable one that would have brought my trip to an abrupt end is worth mentioning. I was going uphill. Both sides of the road had gorges more or less 3ms deep. My speed was about 30kms per hour. Scorpion front wheel turned right in the slippery mud and the rear slide so that I was now travelling vertically on the road heading straight for the gorge. I have never been as frightened as at that moment. I don’t remember the actual thoughts racing through my mind at that time but for some reason the front tyre turned again and I was facing the direction I had just come from. I let Scorpion roll down hill using the momentum of her weight. I stopped and sat on a rock to rest my heart which was beating like I was in love with death. Had I gone done that gorge, at best a crane of some sort would have been necessary to hoist me out, and at worst I would have sustained many broken bones. I still look bad and a shudder goes down my spine. Someone definitely protected me.

When I had regained some normality and there was less adrenaline in my blood stream, I tried again this time with the help of two hefty men and walked Scorpion up hill. I soon left the wooded road behind and was riding on a terrain of rolling hills — absolutely beautiful. In this manner gazing and drinking the beauty of Mother Africa, I arrived at Kasulu about midday exhausted but alive and thankful to God for His protection.

The Road Via Hell

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It was very hot.  I was very tired and hungry when I reach Mpanda Ndogo Mpanda, a small remote town situated in Western Tanzania.  But food and drink were the last things on my mind.  Something else was ― the topbox.

 The Top Box Carrier After Fixing it

 

I saw man on Honda 125cc, who said he was a mechanic; we rode to his workshop, well, under a tree where there were many other mechanics.  They all shared the same tools.  Meanwhile, about thirty people mostly young adults had gathered and remained around until my departure.  When I bought Scorpion, the topbox rack had only two plates holding her in place instead of the recommended six.  This oversight was the cause of my misery and twice, nearly brought my life to an abrupt end.  I removed the top box and explained that I wanted two extra sets of plates, nuts and bolts made to hold the topbox rack in place.  For the next two and half hours, he was in and out of the workshop.  Finally he had the plates fixed; he panel beat the Trax, cleaned and lubricated the chain.  As I waited, I ate a plateful of beans, meat and rice. I also recharged my camera and phone batteries.  For all his work the mechanic charged me about 10$.  He accompanied me to the Petrol station, where I filled up and departed for Uvinza. It was about 2:30 O’clock. 

As Mpanda disappeared behind me, the road began to travel through dense Miombo woodland.  I did not know what to expect but somehow I knew that I would finish what I had started.  The road was sandy, it herald difficult riding conditions.  For the first time on this odyssey, I rode to reach a destination: It was a drudgery and humdrum affair in which I settled.  As the day wore on, I covered more ground.  But the further I went, the denser and lonelier the forest became.  It was like I was being swallowed by an abyss.  And so, every time I reach a curve, I began to wish that the end was near but a little out of sight.  My mind also began playing games on me.  I was imagining things like fearsome creature peering through the woods and plotting all kinds of schemes to make a meal of me.  I was not really afraid but I could not help imagining these weird thoughts.  Flying insects added to my misery and above all the whining of a mosquito!  If one entered your helmet, it was a horrendous and unpleasant encounter when buzzed around the ear in its high pitch drone trying to find its way out.  There was only one way to deal with it ― remove the helmet and find it.

The sand grew increasingly thick.  At times the sand was more than a foot thick.  In these conditions, it was no wonder that by this time I had tumbled eight more times. If I were to detail each one of them, I’d need more space than I have in these narratives.   I will spare you the details but to say that I soon lost count.  I just wanted to reach Uvinza.  It was still raining sometimes just a drizzle and other times pouring heavily: I was wet, muddy and in very low spirits. 

My Zumo did not help matters very much, it had again given up its ghost.  So I could neither tell how far I still had to travel nor determine how far I had come.  It felt like navigating a craft without instruments except the road. 

Sometime during the cruise, I came across a Land Cruiser (it’s one vehicle you will find in no go places); I guess the driver stopped me more out of curiosity than any other reason.  I was glad at least someone cared and was interested in me.  He wanted to know where I had come from and where I was going.  I answered all his questions in a monotonous voice.  They’re very few things that can dampen my spirit, this road and rain had astoundingly succeeded.  When I asked about the road ahead, his answer was vague and not helpful at all.  It was the only vehicle I met this afternoon going the opposite direction. After the encounter, about 5 o’clock, I reached a T-junction (more like a Y-Junction) and took a wrong turn ― I could not decide which way to go.  Fortunately, after 5kms, I came across a group of boys who advised me to take the other road.  They were the first humans I had met in a while.

The ride was sometimes uphill and other times downhill.  I reached a place where the bridge had been wash away.  I did what all the other vehicles did ― I went round the obstacle.  It was a mistake that nearly cost me a night in the forest.  I got bogged.  I pulled, I pushed I did everything; Scorpion was so heavy that she just sank deeper into the mud.  After a period which seemed like an eternity, I heard voices behind the trees.  I said in the loudest of voices in Kiswahili:

“You people see I need your help, and yet you are hiding.  If you don’t come out, I will come and fetch you”   And sure enough the voices replied

“We are coming” the voices said. 

“But what is taking you so long?” I said impatiently.

“We are waiting for our friend”

They were teenagers when they finally emerged.  With a big thank you, in five minutes I was on my way.  I had lost about 45 minutes here.  Although I was exhausted, I was not going to spend the night in this forest.  My speed was reduced to 30kms per hour.  That is the way it was for the rest of the journey.  I reached another section of the road which was completely submerged in a pool of mud.  It was very slippery and twice I slid into the mud and went down.  I had long stopped counting the tumbles. 

This is the place I called the young man to help

Falling was no longer an issue; raising Scorpion was ― I came to dread lifting her more than tumbling.  She was draining too much of my energy lifting her up.  It was now raining heavily and pitch dark.  Fortunately Scorpion has some of the best headlights on bikes: I could see far and wide.  At my speed, I was not the slowest vehicle on the road.  I soon came across a truck that was travelling in my direction. For over 10kms, I was stuck behind this truck, even when I succeeded in passing it, it was a long long time before I finally saw lights signalling habitation.  The forest extended up to the edge of the town to which I came across rather abruptly. This was the slipperiest road I had ever ridden on but I managed to stay upright.

In the pitch blackness of the night, I came across a man who claimed he was a guard.  I asked him for the nearest lodgings.  I followed his directions.  This was not a well light town with hardly any street lights, but it was not a problem finding the lodge.  In my sodden condition, I needed two things: a hot bath and a bed.  I found both.  I lay on the bed knowing I had survived whatever was thrown at me.  If I had come this far and ridden this sordid portion of the trip, I could survive further assault.  For now sleep was beckoning.  I just wanted to sleep, sleep away all the tiredness.  It was the most peaceful sleep of the entire trip. I don’t even remember turning.

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.