tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82432372237282745012024-03-04T22:01:06.927-08:00BikeSafari.netUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-61173254641961328812012-02-26T12:26:00.006-08:002012-02-26T14:18:31.124-08:00Hired a maid<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRC0LO9m9_k7-cR-jzeQrqh5oU9CeQkSlJqjwT0vOcuHUm7th-Jz6a2-T6lsIw1an0E_inV1gzl-bxAPjwtjvbZ3jB-UiitY9qMRle3-5eIYcNjmuie0-SLrrh8NKOX6SnH6SgL81hgA/s1600/kids.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRC0LO9m9_k7-cR-jzeQrqh5oU9CeQkSlJqjwT0vOcuHUm7th-Jz6a2-T6lsIw1an0E_inV1gzl-bxAPjwtjvbZ3jB-UiitY9qMRle3-5eIYcNjmuie0-SLrrh8NKOX6SnH6SgL81hgA/s320/kids.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713546952139017730" border="0" /></a><br />These were clothes washer kids in Ethiopia. I've been thinking of them recently because I hired a maid. One of the guards at my place knew her. She lives in the slum next to my apartment. She comes a couple days a week and does laundry, mops the floor and does dishes.<br /><br />For me, the most important bit is the laundry. For the last year I've been washing my clothes by hand in the sink and that gets old. I have enough money now that I could buy a washing machine, but I'm thinking about moving to another part of town soon and it's cheaper to hire someone.<br /><br />In Africa, everyone with a job has a maid or a relative who doesn't pay rent who functions as a maid. I tried pretty hard to avoid hiring someone. I went to a dozen laundry mats and asked how much they charged but they all said it would be $1 per item for laundry and $3 for dry cleaning. I explained very carefully that I don't need dry cleaning, just laundry with soap and water. In the end, I found one place that offered to do it for $3.50 per load but when I went back there was a new employee working who said the shop was for dry cleaning only and it was $3 per item.<br /><br />Another thing I tried was to hire a computer science student as a way to support him through college. It would have worked out well for him because I could schedule around his classes. I was prepared to pay him about three times the normal wages because he was a student. He said he would mop the floor but there was no way he would do laundry. He has another job now which pays less per hour and doesn't work around his schedule.<br /><br />And I have a maid.<br /><br />Anyway, it all reminded me of these Ethiopian kids. The story is that Henok and I arrived in town and these kids took us to a hotel. They showed us around the room and told us all the selling points.<br /><br />Me: Where are the toilets?<br />Kids: You can just pee in the sink.<br />Me: Uh, the sink just drains on the floor.<br />Kids: Yeah, but the floor is sloped and so it drains into the shower and down the drain.<br />Me: Ok... What about if I want to take a dump.<br />Kids: It might be able to fit down the shower drain?<br /><br />It turns out that the toilets were in the backyard, but I worry that other guests never discovered that. Certainly the place smelled very nasty. I didn't take a shower that night.<br /><br />After they showed us around, Henok gave them all his clothes to be laundered. I guess, we assumed that they were associated with the hotel, but actually they were just street kids. The hotel employees knew them, but they didn't like them and refused to let them have any water for washing clothes.<br /><br />Less enterprising kids would have been discouraged, but these kids managed to find water. It was stinky water from the swamp. When the clothes came back they were dirtier and smellier than they had been originally.<br /><br />I forget how much we paid them. I think it was a lot. If I could go back, I would double it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-26251968561497921042011-11-25T12:52:00.001-08:002011-12-07T12:50:57.580-08:00Cycling the dirt road to Mbeya<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-mMSAATgFnKXtf1gKz5pphrCDoHRGy26fMVOGbJf7PN3HyETMJpR6kcG1bEd5s_iFWx0e_qaN5dREZT5DnC8KKkK0_Uyys4A9bLT59Eqk1bi-Sab1jrO5Ml_BvOOghPpVpC07FxQZw/s1600/filament.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH-mMSAATgFnKXtf1gKz5pphrCDoHRGy26fMVOGbJf7PN3HyETMJpR6kcG1bEd5s_iFWx0e_qaN5dREZT5DnC8KKkK0_Uyys4A9bLT59Eqk1bi-Sab1jrO5Ml_BvOOghPpVpC07FxQZw/s320/filament.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683488675689153234" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />These days if I were cycling through Africa, I would probably have an Android phone and I could connect to the internet almost everywhere. The resolution on google maps has gotten so good as well. In Tanzania you can zoom in and see the individual trees. It's hard to explain to people that all those things weren't available just a few short years ago. Instead, what I had was a scrap of paper with the following towns listed on it: Kigali, Nzega, Tabora, Mbeya.<br /><br />I was surprised, when I reached Nzega, to learn that the road to Mbeya through Tabora was a dirt road. There are two main reasons to avoid dirt roads. First of all, when you're remote, there is less help around if you run into trouble or get robbed by bandits. Second, the road could be bumpy or sandy. But there was no internet in Nzega, so I wasn't sure what the other roads were like. And you stand at the end of the tar and stare into the distance and maybe the road looks solid and smooth but there are 700 kilometers until the other side and it's a gamble. And perhaps that's a metaphor for life. So you start off down the lonely dirt road.<br /><br />And it <span style="font-weight: bold;">is</span> lonely. There are few people and fewer still who speak English. The first few hundred kilometers on either side have bus service, but I don't think there are any buses which go all the way through. At times, I'd arrive in a village and have to resort to sign language to find something to eat. Children are better than adults at sign language. Adults just stare at you sullenly and refuse to participate in your game of charades.<br /><br />It's a surreal thing to cycle on and on, alone. It's just a series of disconnected events that have no meaning or story or sometimes don't make sense. Like the abandoned construction site, way out in the middle of noplace, where a mad homeless man lives by himself. Or the village with the megaphones set up on poles which blare the sound of a child and a woman weeping. And you cycle on from there until you catch up with a man carrying his four year old daughter on the back of his bike. And she keeps falling asleep and almost falling off until eventually he secures her on with a piece of cloth. She doesn't look sick, it just the rhythm of it putting her to sleepy. You can't talk to him, but it's companionable to cycle on and on together with him and his sleeping daughter until it's after dark and you reach the next village.<br /><br />Traveling that is a dream like thing. And it does infect your dreams eventually. Sometimes I dream I'm cycling through the forest and there are woolie mammoths chasing after me. Or sometimes I'm exploring a city made of white stone by the ocean. Or sometimes I dream that I'm just a small dot crawling slowly across a big map.<br /><br />My favorite part of this section was the bike paths. There were long bike paths to avoid the sandy or bumpy bits of the road. You could travel for twenty kilometers with just occasional glimpses of the road here and there. When you're cycling on the road, you're constantly looking up ahead and counting kilometers. It is a fun change to go barreling through the trails in the forest. Or through the fields and through the villages, scattering the chickens with a flurry of feathers and clucking.<br /><br />Then on the last day you climb and climb until you are get to the crest of mountain range. There is a constant breeze here and someone has made a windmill using the old side panels from a car. You can see the city laid out far below you in the valley. You look out and you can see for miles and miles until everything is fuzzy and blue.<br /><br />You want to savour the moment. To breath it in. You know that soon you'll be racing down the hill and you'll never be back, to this place and this glorious view. Then you get back on your bike and you follow the road, but instead of going down it keeps on following the the mountain ridge, up and up and up. And each new view is amazing and wonderful. Then the road goes behind the back of the mountain again and you cycle up and up and up. Until at last you reach the very tippy top where the radio antennas are. There is a sign which tells you that you're on the highest road in all of Tanzania.<br /><br />And the view from there is ok and you feel slightly guilty because you're too tired and don't actually care. So you coast downhill into Mbeya.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-62585173999269654492011-07-15T15:27:00.000-07:002011-07-27T08:21:57.282-07:00Bandits<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vwIO-0kLez_1BiKpK2hetECC056MIS09G5gQEUU-VDd_0Gx-vvS2KNSS8NQ632xURy7ZCF1eCgjVOeUmE-1714HsCIkedAbFBGrnKrgAEl-apPyeIy1T3QwEGydSEYs_DHsR7Ylgzw/s1600/plowing.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vwIO-0kLez_1BiKpK2hetECC056MIS09G5gQEUU-VDd_0Gx-vvS2KNSS8NQ632xURy7ZCF1eCgjVOeUmE-1714HsCIkedAbFBGrnKrgAEl-apPyeIy1T3QwEGydSEYs_DHsR7Ylgzw/s320/plowing.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634013577316689986" /></a><br /><br />All my pictures from this point in my trip were destroyed by hardware failure so here is an unrelated picture from Ethiopia of a guy plowing.<br /><br />Rwanda has the highest population density of any country in Africa. It's to the point where they can't feed themselves and they don't have minerals that they could sell for food. But then you cross the river into Tanzania and there is just empty forest for miles and miles.<br /><br />It turns out there are bandits in the forest. The young soldier told me this when I went through the road block. They like to rob people bringing stuff from the coast to Rwanda. It's quite hilly and the bandits attack the lorries when they are moving slowly up the hills.<br /><br />I'm not an idiot, so I obviously told him that in the light of the bandit situation, perhaps I should take the bus. But the soldier told me, "No no. You'll be fine. I'm just saying that if you see anyone with an AK, then if he's wearing a uniform, that's a police man. He's your friend. But if you see someone with a gun and he's not wearing a uniform, be very careful with him because that's a bandit." He smiled cheerfully, and waved me on through.<br /><br />I would have taken the bus despite his reassurances but I couldn't afford it. Someone had written on their blog that there were ATMs as soon as you got into Tanzania, but I had taken it too literally and not changed enough money at the border. I had less than $10 in local currency on me.<br /><br />The good news was that the government of Tanzania evidently was serious about dealing with the bandit problem. I was passed two times by a police patrol. They were in a pickup truck. There were four skinny guys with AKs at each corner and a fat guy in the middle with a high calibre mounted machine gun. They all had uniforms on, so I knew they were my friends.<br /><br />It was about 80 km to the next town. There was no bank, so I decided to press on. I asked the policeman at the road block if the next section was safe. He had to think about it for a minute before he answered me. Finally he smiled and told me, "Well, you've come from that side; this side is exactly the same. You'll be fine!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-47117656997476933082011-07-11T06:54:00.000-07:002011-07-11T08:34:41.742-07:00Rwanda<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYe8qzvoEXclUCnTpboZwypHR-770-HjopZLcEoOjHGBptip45PsCkuQym2HPpfhT5VzbW-iroAbjGmO3sG9pOV2lAGSFSFcQTSaX6EF1H4Qh4mIMO1zmqgzRApGBVE6xApbeYVB9-Q/s1600/kagame.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYe8qzvoEXclUCnTpboZwypHR-770-HjopZLcEoOjHGBptip45PsCkuQym2HPpfhT5VzbW-iroAbjGmO3sG9pOV2lAGSFSFcQTSaX6EF1H4Qh4mIMO1zmqgzRApGBVE6xApbeYVB9-Q/s320/kagame.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628094038719799122" /></a><br /><br /><br />Rwanda is a small country and I don't have many stories from the place. But I feel like I should write something. So I've just cut and pasted a bunch of stuff from Wikipedia. Even today's picture is from Wikipedia.<br /><br />The story of Rwanda has to start with the Hutus and Tutsis and the genocide.<br /><br />Back in the ancient times, if you had ten cows then you were a Tutsi otherwise you were a Hutu. If you were a Hutu but you somehow collected ten cows, then you became a Tutsi. There were lots of poor people and fewer wealthy. Sometimes wealthy people married poor people although mostly they married from their own circle. The king was obviously a Tutsi and the country was run by the wealthy.<br /><br />When the colonists--the Germans and Belgians--arrived, they thought the Tutsis had longer noses and paler skin. In other words, the wealthy people were sort of white-ish. There was an Atlantis type myth at the time about a tribe of white people living in the heart of Africa. The early colonists thought maybe the Tutsis were descended from that white tribe.<br /><br />The problem is you couldn't tell Hutus and Tutsis apart just by looking at them. In fact, if you take away their cows, it's almost impossible to tell the difference. They don't have any language or cultural differences, for example. These days scientists are doing DNA research to settle once and for all the debate whether there even is a difference, perhaps at the microscopic level. It might be that scientists discover it's something similar to England where some people are more Norman and some are more Anglo Saxon. But for now lets just say they're exactly the same.<br /><br />Initially the colonials tried to tell the Hutus and Tutsis apart my measuring their noses but that failed. So eventually they just just gave everyone an ID card which said what race they were. In the new system it didn't matter how many cows you had, you kept your Tutsi or Hutu status. If you had a Tutsi ID card, that meant you could go to school or hold a position in the government. The colonials kept the same basic framework with a Tutsi king and Tutsi aristocracy and Hutus being conscripted for unpaid labour and so on.<br /><br />I'm sure at first the Tutsis thought it was pretty cool to learn they were descended from a mysterious group of Atlanteans, but probably you've realized by now that this story is not going to end well. Historically it sucks to be an ethnic minority.<br /><br />Up to World War II the Tutsis had all the money and power and the support of the Belgian colonists but after the war, things became progressively worse and worse for the Tutsis. Their king implemented reforms and programs of land and wealth redistribution. At independence, their king was replaced by a Hutu president. The president implemented a program of jobs redistribution. Under the new system having a Tutsi ID card mean your kids were kicked out of school to make room for for Hutu kids. Lots of Tutsis fled the country. Some fought back. Then the president was replaced by a military dictator who used the government controlled media to spew racist, anti-Tutsi propaganda and vowed to stamp out the Tutsi rebellions.<br /><br />The whole situation festered for decades with Tutsi exiles funding small rebellions and worsening persecution for the Tutsis who remained. Then in the early 1990s it came to a head.<br /><br />The population in Uganda was tired of playing host to the Tutsi exiles and they were jealous of the Tutsi wealth. But the exiles had played an influential part in the Ugandan Bush War and the president of Uganda owed them a favour. Plus it would be good to have an ally in charge of the neighbouring country. So one night all the Rwandan soldiers in the Ugandan army mysteriously ran off into the forest and went home to fight for freedom.<br /><br />France, on the other hand, armed and supported the Hutus. Rwanda was a French speaking country and the Tutsis had been gone so long they now spoke English. The question was raised, could you even consider them Rwandan if they had forgotten the language? Non.<br /><br />The war intensified until eventually the Hutu dictator was forced to sign a cease fire and form a power sharing government. Then almost a year later his plane was shot with a missile and he died. No one knows who did it. The Tutsis say it was Hutu extremists and the Hutus together with France say it was the Tutsis.<br /><br />The next day the voice on the radio said it was Tutsis who did this. Kill them all. About 10% of Rwanda is Tutsi. In the next three months the Hutus butchered between 10% and 20% of the Rwandan population. If you had a Tutsi ID card you died. If you were friends with a Tutsi then you died. If your nose was too long, then you died.<br /><br />The corpses floated down the rivers into Lake Victoria where the Nile perch grew especially fat that year.<br /><br />With the start of the genocide, the Tutsi rebel army went again to war. Led by Paul Kagame they captured the capital and the country and finally chased the Hutu army into Congo. They ended the genocide.<br /><br />These days Rwanda is peaceful. The remnants of the Hutu army is still out there in eastern Congo but they're not powerful enough any more to pose a serious threat to the government.<br /><br />Paul Kagame is the president now. He's a thin man with glasses and ears that stick out. He's always on twitter arguing with journalists. It's easy to forget that he was the general of a rebel army, but people say he's a bit of a tyrant. He doesn't like when the refugees from the Congo have protests. Some opposition politicians have ended up in jail for being racist. He's apparently not a big fan of press freedom.<br /><br />But everyone acknowledges that he is a genius as well. He has curbed government corruption. He has implemented various reforms to help the poor. He has built infrastructure. He has cut government red tape and made it easier to run a business. When it comes time for elections, he has to fake some votes for his opposition because foreign investors who haven't lived their whole life in a warzone don't believe you can get over 90% of the vote without cheating.<br /><br />I very much enjoyed my time in the Rwanda. It's a beautiful place. And clean. You aren't allowed to bring plastic bags into the country. They're very strict about litter. The people are likewise exceptionally beautiful. The food is good. The roads are good. The drivers are law abiding and considerate. It's hilly and rainy and green.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-61521973535902755942011-05-19T11:53:00.000-07:002011-05-19T13:02:17.743-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Bxc5ekR_78RhRZFasd2PppZAwExzwCud_WHAqTi8V9UHiosB8JondDD1ngMCd1u_NktZwwB-YX_lpryWqXuqSP_IR6-9866w5NRGbP3vp2Q79BGXNgcrGT6QHWE0CSdho6zPdCuF3Q/s1600/hotel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Bxc5ekR_78RhRZFasd2PppZAwExzwCud_WHAqTi8V9UHiosB8JondDD1ngMCd1u_NktZwwB-YX_lpryWqXuqSP_IR6-9866w5NRGbP3vp2Q79BGXNgcrGT6QHWE0CSdho6zPdCuF3Q/s320/hotel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608505555918097170" /></a><br /><br />The photo is a hotel from Ethiopia but this story is from Rwanda.<br /><br />The front of the hotel had a small restaurant, but there was no one around. I dragged my bicycle through to the open area in the back and called out for the receptionist. After a minute a woman arrived and I asked her how much it was for the night. She looked confused.<br /><br />I studied French in high school. You know how French has those gender things, right? Perhaps I had gotten one of them wrong. Nothing offends French speakers more than grammatical errors. Or perhaps it was her French that was bad. The genocide made people flee to countries that don't speak French. The country is officially transitioning to English. The kids who graduate from high school after 2020 are supposed to known English.<br /><br />Regardless, I try again slowly and distinctly, "How. Much. Is. It. Per. Night?" This time she tells me to wait here while she goes to get the person in charge. When the next lady arrives, I'm still in my slow and distinct mode of communication. "How. Much. Are. Your. Rooms?"<br /><br />"Oh. You want the hotel. That's next door."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-26838322734332054982011-05-17T09:04:00.000-07:002011-05-17T09:06:48.806-07:00Mortuary man<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-b2Sw7rNzRISr8sWoK16ws2P-Mql-sF4Utw1bNL3BxITO1GtAIqTL0KksvKGzGmAs2HbLupWJugD_YWYhAh9d96nkvwkelDkeUhAB2BtC0dYjHjS6Gw7phc6YuuCUu19KhAQjTQq0Gg/s1600/flower.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-b2Sw7rNzRISr8sWoK16ws2P-Mql-sF4Utw1bNL3BxITO1GtAIqTL0KksvKGzGmAs2HbLupWJugD_YWYhAh9d96nkvwkelDkeUhAB2BtC0dYjHjS6Gw7phc6YuuCUu19KhAQjTQq0Gg/s320/flower.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607716902413381890" /></a><br /><br />“Let's go! I want to show you those dead people.” The man talking to me is clearly stoned. He has to take a break between each sentence to gather his thoughts. He leans against the wall drunkenly for support.<br /><br />“I work at the mortuary,” he assures me. “When the bodies come in, I get the coins” He looks at me, evaluating. “Pickpocket you.” He pauses. “Yes, and take your shoes.”<br /><br />For the previous ten minutes, he has been asking me over and over for $0.25. But now he is settling in for the long haul. “You never know,” he beams optimistically. “You could die tomorrow. Only God knows that.”<br /><br />He is wearing a blue hoodie. It is threadbare in places and layered over with grime. There is a plastic water bottle stuffed down one sleeve. Curious, I ask him whether his bottle has glue or embalming fluid. He covers his nose and mouth in his sleeve and huffs. It is embalming fluid.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-68231050450327092832011-04-23T08:26:00.000-07:002011-04-24T03:01:03.001-07:00Blessings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-Msk1dIoe4DJKb5CUAVIUUyYvPjztREYJ4toEwhKYwKJPKnBXxIb85v5CYsa6EBzBRrJOmm3e-WCxyrbu734HS45dsQakKiihNqZ1fgwjkXWJqpBH_GGfQrgyDTB6jo-9ecbgM2L5w/s1600/IMG_3677.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-Msk1dIoe4DJKb5CUAVIUUyYvPjztREYJ4toEwhKYwKJPKnBXxIb85v5CYsa6EBzBRrJOmm3e-WCxyrbu734HS45dsQakKiihNqZ1fgwjkXWJqpBH_GGfQrgyDTB6jo-9ecbgM2L5w/s320/IMG_3677.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599086989473821314" /></a><br /><br />I guess the reason I stopped writing these stories is that all my pictures from Rwanda, Tanzania and most of Malawi were destroyed by a hardware failure. I'll try write up some entries sans photos though. Maybe I'll just post pictures of flowers that I took along the way.<br /><br />A couple weeks ago, the rest of my pictures were almost lost as well. Thieves broke into my hotel room while I was at supper. They took pretty much everything except my clothes and my backup harddrive. They stole my camera, laptop, phone, ATM card, passport, and money. But those things are easy to replace. I already have a new passport.<br /><br />I am in Naivasha, Kenya now. Most days I hang out at a barber shop nearby. I like chatting with people there.<br /><br />The barber shop also charges cell phone batteries for people without electricity in their homes. The other day a lady came by with a new LED flash light still in the box. She asked how much it would cost to charge it (25 cents). She started to take it out of the box, but then decided to take it home first. She wanted to pray over the flashlight and to ask God to bless it.<br /><br />After she left, the barber told me she was going to use the flashlight to raise broiler chickens. Broilers need a light on at night to keep them awake. Those things have to eat day and night. They eat a lot. People often underestimate how expensive it is to feed them and are forced to sell them at a loss before they're fully grown.<br /><br />Life is full of everything. We all pray for God's blessing on us.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-22962416414910585242011-01-02T09:27:00.000-08:002011-01-02T10:41:16.398-08:00Christmas 2010<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWz5OymTlInBTHwsVi8S-OI2aaC18E75MKYAGYHaNqmxs4XWKC0lkBdMipklP93t856HgFRbtEHcvJA9CgWRmXZRH6OklHBp-QF-DH4H09hd3l_cl4BjNe1F2EO05ieslEHF-kuWXV6g/s1600/gramps.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWz5OymTlInBTHwsVi8S-OI2aaC18E75MKYAGYHaNqmxs4XWKC0lkBdMipklP93t856HgFRbtEHcvJA9CgWRmXZRH6OklHBp-QF-DH4H09hd3l_cl4BjNe1F2EO05ieslEHF-kuWXV6g/s320/gramps.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557641770339494834" /></a><br /><br />I'm in Uganda at the moment.<br /><br />Dad came up here to spend Christmas with the grandkids. Mum couldn't make it because they have a limited travel budget and she's planning to travel to the States next year.<br /><br />Anyway, Grandpa Bob (as he is known around here) was remarking to me that the grandkids made out a great deal better than we did in Zambia. I turns out I was already aware of this. Because I <b>remember</b> what it was like growing up in Zambia. Because I was there.<br /><br />We had almost no toys at all. My favorite toy was a prize from sports day. I always came dead last on the real races but I did OK on the novelty races like the Egg Race. For the Egg Race, you have a spoon in each hand and you balance a hard boiled egg in each spoon. First you race 100 meters without dropping the eggs, then you eat the eggs, and finally you work up enough saliva to the point where you can whistle. The third place finisher gets a Knot Twitch String.<br /><br />Basically imagine if you took a jump rope and chopped it in half and then tied a wooden bead to the frayed end. The game was that you held the handle so the bead was hanging motionless, then you gave it a very specific kind of twitch and the bead would jump up and loop around and form a knot in the string on the way down. I got to the point where I could make seventeen knots in a row. After that the rope was too short and knotted, so the bead didn't jump properly and you had to stop to untie it.<br /><br />Jason's kids are too young for a Knot Twitch String but maybe that can be their Christmas present in a couple years.<br /><br />The picture is of Grandpa Bob and a grandchild at Lake Nabugabo. We went camping. I hope you enjoyed the holidays as much as I did.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-79602722681707296012010-07-21T07:50:00.000-07:002010-07-21T08:03:42.533-07:00Bananas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUkvac0NUlJvDyT0ZMmK0RHPzM4hj-LqqssBh2ILyx8NyHQZu138VQaO0EVBWIchz43g44SGzspHwrgs8fZy4iBN6Nf91HLh9aIwr2YMXzMi7wockdIoGz-iA53r2xZGSxxOF6S5covA/s1600/bananas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUkvac0NUlJvDyT0ZMmK0RHPzM4hj-LqqssBh2ILyx8NyHQZu138VQaO0EVBWIchz43g44SGzspHwrgs8fZy4iBN6Nf91HLh9aIwr2YMXzMi7wockdIoGz-iA53r2xZGSxxOF6S5covA/s320/bananas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496372684899101106" /></a><br /><br />The average Ugandan consumes 1 Kg of bananas per day. When you cross the border the guard is like, "Welcome to Uganda. Please eat 1KG of bananas per day so that you don't pull down our average banana consumption. Uganda is the world's number one consumer of bananas. Enjoy your stay."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-57978992854632984422010-06-30T05:07:00.000-07:002010-06-30T05:20:01.028-07:00Bodo Boda<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVSOlVSeS8TQSkRghCmySA5Qjjz7Xz5JgWTtRQ4euVjg8-mJc-9Q8m8YUdwtIYS8wm-qoogtogddcP6-ks6-eoZF6REAFb3jpJ84d831u-0oS1-y3X7XlVR08AFULnIRRFvpHA1JDGg/s1600/boda.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVSOlVSeS8TQSkRghCmySA5Qjjz7Xz5JgWTtRQ4euVjg8-mJc-9Q8m8YUdwtIYS8wm-qoogtogddcP6-ks6-eoZF6REAFb3jpJ84d831u-0oS1-y3X7XlVR08AFULnIRRFvpHA1JDGg/s320/boda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488539623387206770" /></a><br />You can get them other places, but Uganda is the true home of "boda-boda" motorcycle taxi.<br /><br />Originally boda-bodas were bicycles that gave you a ride between the Kenya and Uganda border ("boda" get it?) posts back in 1960s. You can still get bicycle taxis in Kenyan towns. It's a very pleasant way to travel. It has the advantages of cycling but without the work. They put a padded seat on the back of the bike. In Nakuru rush hour doesn't mean noise, stress traffic jams and pollution. Businessmen read their newspaper as the bicycle taxi man ferries them to work.<br /><br />But these days the word "boda-boda" means a Ugandan motorcycle taxi. They are everywhere. It's very conveniant. Even if you have your own car, you will find yourself taking the occasional boda when you are in a hurry. Traffic is terrible in Kampala, but the boda-boda men can pass between cars or on the sidewalk so you reach your destination on time.<br /><br />I sometimes ended up taking bodas late at night. It's a dangerous thing because they could drive you somewhere dark, where their friends are hiding, beat the crap out of you and take all you stuff stuff. But it's also exhilerating because the town is deserted so there is nothing to hold you back. The boda-boda men love to race. You fly through the silent sleeping streets and you realize that life is a glorious thing and short.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-89070955523125574982010-06-17T10:10:00.000-07:002010-06-17T10:16:44.627-07:00Sabaot Land Defence Force<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ro0_EvCavZ37Dzsg0Y6O8HMaHNL8CoPDenc9UwbiB3mx3s1EM33-AhDWE3RfnaFPA-gUN26tstVrm7W6EJ6NyZt24k03LgWFggY1lrZOWNBuubbxZUM5e_KXLuByw5MYYRrCr0Ar8w/s1600/hyrax.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ro0_EvCavZ37Dzsg0Y6O8HMaHNL8CoPDenc9UwbiB3mx3s1EM33-AhDWE3RfnaFPA-gUN26tstVrm7W6EJ6NyZt24k03LgWFggY1lrZOWNBuubbxZUM5e_KXLuByw5MYYRrCr0Ar8w/s320/hyrax.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483792350860230706" /></a><br /><br />These stories are so old it's not even funny.<br /><br />For example I was passing through Eldoret, Kenya in 2008. <br /><br />One thing on the television back then was the leader of the Mount Elgon rebels making pronouncements about justice and so on. It was very local news for El Doret. You can see the mountain from town. I was going to cycle out that way the next day.<br /><br />They interviewed a general from the Kenyan army afterward and it reassured me. He looked annoyed. "I don't know what he was doing on television making these outrageous pronouncements. The only thing I know is that he is dead. We shot him and then we checked his finger prints. He's definitely dead."<br /><br />The next day was sunny and good cycling. People were out and about in droves.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-50516138186975890372010-05-23T09:19:00.000-07:002010-05-24T05:05:06.811-07:00Bonus Kenya Entry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4v-guvRyDNeR9q3Z8nY0oHhLcjSyZCtDOfVjuXbrwiT_euKpKAJzhx3w3cnlHXikifmjLkKGUAGX5Ku_ZFbhhiLyQnWvdP7vnmWJkfQRHQjb9Cf3sE7sScvLuL-vNnd3A2tiQv4yQw/s1600/tea.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX4v-guvRyDNeR9q3Z8nY0oHhLcjSyZCtDOfVjuXbrwiT_euKpKAJzhx3w3cnlHXikifmjLkKGUAGX5Ku_ZFbhhiLyQnWvdP7vnmWJkfQRHQjb9Cf3sE7sScvLuL-vNnd3A2tiQv4yQw/s320/tea.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474804186817608210" /></a><br />My last post was perhaps too bitter and depressing so here is a bonus Kenya entry. This is a picture of a Kenyan tea farm. I think tea is one of the most beautiful plants you can farm. Isn't this a soothing picture? Also tea is very soothing to drink.<br /><br />One day I stopped to talk to a Kenyan walking thoughtfully behind a flock of sheep. He was a fat man in a business suit. In fact he was a banker from Nairobi. But he told me that whenever he could, he liked to get back to the farm.<br /><br />I asked him why Kenyans never sheer their sheep or do anything with the wool, because this had been puzzling me for some time. He explained that you need to raise Merino sheep for wool. For meat, people prefer larger, hardier varieties, although his neighbor had a flock of Merino or some kind of Merino hi-bred.<br /><br />He asked where I was going and I said to South Africa. "Ah," he says, "I am going to South Africa too for the next World Cup."<br /><br />Another day I passed a team of marathon runners training. Perhaps a some of them competed in the Olympics. Kenya is famous for its athletes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-43323470283798763192010-05-21T09:02:00.000-07:002010-05-21T09:45:54.413-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pa2w7tVl42r10k8yMpx3VxBczHWOugeydi_owC3zazQFNUDz79a2BN6mc5lHBNxljmOthdS29-_F0L-SzDzxVjgUxqWQcv1865yThgEjvzyCxpSnLfARTZOpsrTCjYe_umy7HP49og/s1600/elephant.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pa2w7tVl42r10k8yMpx3VxBczHWOugeydi_owC3zazQFNUDz79a2BN6mc5lHBNxljmOthdS29-_F0L-SzDzxVjgUxqWQcv1865yThgEjvzyCxpSnLfARTZOpsrTCjYe_umy7HP49og/s320/elephant.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473757239541418738" /></a><br /><br />Gar. Haven't blogged for a while. This picture is from a game drive in Swaziland.<br /><br />I kind of want to fast forward through blogging about Kenya. I went to high school in Kenya. Kenya is a beautiful country with fantastic wildlife. Kenyan's are highly educated and prosperous people in East Africa. I was looking forward to cycling in Kenya, but when I got there it made me depressed.<br /><br />The post election violence had happened while I was in Egypt. It was over by the time I arrived, but there were still camps of displaced people and I passed through some burned down towns. Over a thousand people died in the violence. In the end, no one was punished for any of it. When I got there, there were politicians on television calling for all the prisoners to be released because they had just been caught up in the moment or were falsely accused. The chief of police was interviewed and he said they had already released everyone except the murderers and rapists, if anyone was falsely accused they would have a fair court case. As I understand it, a judge eventually released everyone and accused the police of doing shoddy investigations. The international court wants to get involved now because genocide cannot go unpunished.<br /><br />Kenya is a lawless place now. I visited my high school. There is a big fence around it these days. When I was there, I used to go for runs in the forest. The guard said I was unsafe to go there now. A group of students had been robbed by local charcoal makers who had machetes. The guard said that if I really wanted to go outside it was safest to take a machete.<br /><br />The roads were dangerous too. Kenyan drivers are the most selfish and reckless I have seen. One person was killed when I was riding to Eldoret. It was at those dukas after you cross the equator for the last time. I was out of town, winding my way up the hill and I heard the crash. I stopped and looked down the hill. I could see the people down streaming towards the accident. There women screaming. A minivan had hit a pedestrian. The van had stopped and a passenger had gotten out. In the old days, bystanders would have lynched the driver and set his minivan on fire. I didn't want to see it so I left.<br /><br />I love Kenya, but it has become a violent lawless place.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-17463820339910307922010-03-15T08:32:00.000-07:002010-03-16T00:34:20.298-07:00Everybody must get stoned (North Kenya Day 6)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM7yOS7DkL7HP3fKrVa9mkG-Nki_VxZACnG_Dm8qL23TDnwKySJ_Hur8cJwMu4TUX2lMHpyoJ3U-7kNmU8tX3BziREgttViDf_a3gRm6NH5K7Ssod45I5mBoVSJYapdT4YpOjmAPT9jA/s1600-h/ndodos_neice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM7yOS7DkL7HP3fKrVa9mkG-Nki_VxZACnG_Dm8qL23TDnwKySJ_Hur8cJwMu4TUX2lMHpyoJ3U-7kNmU8tX3BziREgttViDf_a3gRm6NH5K7Ssod45I5mBoVSJYapdT4YpOjmAPT9jA/s320/ndodos_neice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448885222875203362" /></a><br /><br />So I stop to greet these guys. There are three of them around twenty years old. They're wearing western clothing, except that they are all carrying Samburu gear--a small club, a Samburu sword (basically a double edged machete in a scabard), and a staff for herding cows. One of them has warrior paint on his head.<br /><br />People always want me to stop and chat and normally I don't, but this was a sandy road with a big hump in the middle so I couldn't go around them. One of the reasons I don't stop, is that people often ask me for stuff. Sure enough after I finish shaking everyone's hands, they do start asking me to give them my water bottles.<br /><br />I explain to them that I still have 40 km left until the next village and I need the water, so OK people it's been fun talking to you but I have to go.<br /><br />The young man with the warrior paint is blocking my way. "Fuckin," he says and pushes my bike back. "Come on," I say, "I've got a long ways to go." He points to my handle bar bag. "Fuckin," he says indicating that I should open it.<br /><br />I turn to the guy beside me. "Come on. You speak English. Tell him to let me through." His eyes go wide. He waves his hands and shakes his head. Leave me out of this.<br /><br />The guy behind me is very tall. He doesn't say anything, just waves his club in a threatening way. It has a big iron nut attached to the end.<br /><br />War paint dude can't figure out how to open my handle bar bag. "Fuckin" he says to me but I shrug my shoulders and tell him that he needs to speak in English because I don't understand what he's saying.<br /><br />He gives up on the handle bar bag and moves to the side of me. I stop him as he tries to reach his hand into my pocket. The tall fellow waves his club at me.<br /><br />War paint dude finds a packet of toilette paper in my pocket. I am amused by this. I knew all along that I only had tissues in there.<br /><br />They stand for a moment discussing. He gives me back my tissues.<br /><br />So the thing is, they say that there are Somali bandits north of Marsabit. If I had been robbed by Somalis with AKs then I would have just given them everything. It's a scenario that I had prepared for and worked out in my head.<br /><br />But I hadn't expected to get robbed like this. These weren't even proper bandits, they were just people walking on the road who happened to meet me and outnumber me.<br /><br />Anyway, when he gave me back the tissue I made a break for it. War paint dude tried to grab my handle bars but he slipped and fell.<br /><br />I cycled like mad until, "Whap!" One of them threw a staff and it hit me across the back. I almost laughed because it didn't hurt and I could hear how annoyed they were.<br /><br />That would have been the end of it, if it hadn't been such sandy road. The sand kept on getting deeper and deeper and I was going slower and slower until they had caught up with me. All the time they were throwing rocks at me. <br /><br />Eventually the sand was too deep and I had to stop, pick up my bike and move it to the other side of the road under a barrage of flying rocks. Some of those rocks were big too, thrown with both hands.<br /><br />I escaped. My shirt was completely shredded. I couldn't inhale too deeply for the next couple weeks because of a cracked rib. Also I got a chipped bone at the base of my thumb. I did a lot of stretching, but I expect it will always be a little stiff.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-41184704682702092832010-02-28T06:15:00.001-08:002010-02-28T06:19:08.028-08:00Northern Kenya: South of Marsabit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3gpWyj3UWNvgnsaJUypyUPUynsYepVEwSTCuHBMNK41Oe9nb49e4rBz2YboSrHi3wI48nrReAy2XH03HH4gpiSwQQK0FcO8l1Tnm2cbfe4szzE964UkQZunuFD5c1dczDwB6qhU_VOA/s1600-h/camels.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3gpWyj3UWNvgnsaJUypyUPUynsYepVEwSTCuHBMNK41Oe9nb49e4rBz2YboSrHi3wI48nrReAy2XH03HH4gpiSwQQK0FcO8l1Tnm2cbfe4szzE964UkQZunuFD5c1dczDwB6qhU_VOA/s320/camels.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443298175298898178" /></a><br /><br />Marsabit is a dusty, frontier town in the middle of the desert. I was due for a day of rest and laundry, but there wasn't anything interesting happening and I decided to push on.<br /><br />Once you pass Marsabit, there are still some sandy stretches of road, but you start to see people and villages again.<br /><br />The local tribes have retained their traditions. Women wear elaborate bead arrangements instead of shirts for example. Some twenty kilometers south of Marsabit, I passed through a village where everyone was especially dressed up with war paint and spears. At first I thought that it must be a festival or something, but later on I learned that it was tribal warfare. There had been some killing before I arrived.<br /><br />I passed an angry man with an AK-47 slung across his shoulders. He didn't speak English, but I knew he was yelling at me to stop. I looked back to make sure he wasn't pointing the AK at me, and I sped up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-42994746090631584382010-02-17T04:26:00.000-08:002010-02-22T10:49:32.489-08:00Northern Kenya Day Four<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgdldd4mNAbr-dXhRHdhTB_ZBnU9nWu-MWkM2070bsFmKOSlLzKEaWQZ2q9vcSDq3Ok74N7AeZ7OZWZXQeEEE6I_ZToYIMwjIAknFzRJiVnWR4Ydd_J5ok8lRPAiWWrjwhnI386sx9A/s1600-h/moon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 426px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgdldd4mNAbr-dXhRHdhTB_ZBnU9nWu-MWkM2070bsFmKOSlLzKEaWQZ2q9vcSDq3Ok74N7AeZ7OZWZXQeEEE6I_ZToYIMwjIAknFzRJiVnWR4Ydd_J5ok8lRPAiWWrjwhnI386sx9A/s320/moon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439188505501840658" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9F_-1Febq4MWRtQp5gqqGuAJZUuArcGmu-vOuQRd7IMJXjZ3nBTFHDsk1d5Ud-qA5_8iOcacEnXtz_V2IgWVvdxNILhWDbp8TeHGUh47zNI9FHx4y1OZcMoThDxvmdK5Jwdk3o95Bfg/s1600-h/animals.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 77px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9F_-1Febq4MWRtQp5gqqGuAJZUuArcGmu-vOuQRd7IMJXjZ3nBTFHDsk1d5Ud-qA5_8iOcacEnXtz_V2IgWVvdxNILhWDbp8TeHGUh47zNI9FHx4y1OZcMoThDxvmdK5Jwdk3o95Bfg/s320/animals.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439188644290040066" /></a><br /><br />Soleil means "sun" in French, but it was also the name of a French cyclist I met in the desert.<br /><br />He was deeply tanned with a grizzly beard, a grungy sleeveless undershirt and brown trousers which had a broken zipper.<br /><br />We exchanged pleasantries. We cursed at the road. He asked if it improved later on and I assured him that it was terrible for the next 50 km. <br /><br />Then he tried to bum cash off me so he could buy a visa into Ethiopia. It turned out that he had had to spend $6 to repair the ball bearings on his bottom bracket and was now utterly penniless.<br /><br />He had had a business in South Africa but it had run into problems so he decided to buy a used Rockhopper for $100 and cycle back to France. He was sleeping out in the open at night. I don't know what he was eating.<br /><br />I worried that he didn't seem to have enough water for the desert. He wasn't carrying a lot of gear. On the front of his bike he had some rock climbing shoes and a coil of rope and on the back he had a guitar.<br /><br />It is the duty of cyclists who meet in the desert to help each other so I gave him $20. I have since heard that you can't buy visas at that border post, you have to do that in Nairobi. Maybe you can talk your way through. I hope he made it home.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-8919256372945390012010-02-10T03:13:00.000-08:002010-02-10T03:39:12.104-08:00Northen Kenya Day Three<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVCilo6kwP77zJuohoG0L8lMNw84xBkiA21VZEPcSVskBMjNvRXUapFuC8wm8VzgEgZbA0Kd3xo9y_aQ6GkHXw1k5l_IFeY6T7FSey8-lqKm5s51iqx88kXzfPw11fhQcVEMRP5VUfA/s1600-h/desert.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFVCilo6kwP77zJuohoG0L8lMNw84xBkiA21VZEPcSVskBMjNvRXUapFuC8wm8VzgEgZbA0Kd3xo9y_aQ6GkHXw1k5l_IFeY6T7FSey8-lqKm5s51iqx88kXzfPw11fhQcVEMRP5VUfA/s320/desert.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436573525649118114" /></a><br /><br />You know in July how the weather man from Channel 9 fries an egg on the sidewalk? Your brain is made of essentially the same stuff as egg. The only thing keeping you alive in the summer time is perspiration.<br /><br />In the movies people sometimes get lost in the desert and go for days without water and they see mirages. Ha ha ha. There are exceptions, but in real life, it's far more common for people to die of heat stroke on the first day. If you don't move you could survive for two days but normally people try walking to safety and die within hours.<br /><br />That's why it's so important to drink lots of fluids. When I was in the desert, I used to drink ten liters of water per day. I normally would keep a water bottle wedged next to my handle bar bag so I didn't have to reach down all the time. And I was always super careful to carry enough water and an extra four liters of reserve water.<br /><br />Anyway, after camping a night in the desert I was down my reserve water bag. Obviously that's when I found out that my reserve water bag has sprung a leak and I only had half a liter of water left.<br /><br />There is very little traffic on that road but even before I got on my bike, a truck came by. I was going to ask the driver for water but instead I asked him how far it was to the next village. This is a 100% true account of our conversation:<br /><blockquote><br /><b>Driver</b>: The next village is really close. You see the bend in the road? The next village is just around that corner.<br /><b>Me (squinting)</b>: I don't see a village.<br /><b>Driver</b>: No no. You can't see it because it's just around the bend.<br /></blockquote><br /><br />This was surprising and happy news to me, because I had thought it was 20 km to the next village. I thanked him heartily.<br /><br />Every word I know is insufficient to describe the rest of that day. It was 32 km to the next village. I know that doesn't sound like a long way, but it was. That road was indescribably bad. And so was the headwind. I've had windy days in Egypt and I rode against the wind in South Africa which blew over trucks and blocked the mountain passes, but I have never seen anything like the wind in northern Kenya. At the end, I was too exhausted to ride and could only push my bike. It was 1:30 in the afternoon when I finally arrived.<br /><br />Really it was a stupid thing. If I had just waited, there are cars that pass by. I sort of lost track of time actually and didn't realize it was afternoon. Plus there were places with trees and I thought maybe someone lived there. I kept on expecting the village to be around the corner.<br /><br />As soon as I arrived, I ordered two of those one liter bottles of water and a coke.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-12537228648794889522010-02-08T01:49:00.000-08:002010-02-08T01:56:10.934-08:00Northen Kenya Day Two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Wd2wSTDz7CPVdftG5x5tZRZ8O-ZcT4_CuiOUi0XR-K3ZWHIrz4cCHssSWKZFyM4aHtOhdPSq-cXnef399uvS-mxB4Ro7-5zJQuE-_tgU_Ro5KrD9uG_z-dQdV3eyXL2aG2Jj_onjqw/s1600-h/tree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Wd2wSTDz7CPVdftG5x5tZRZ8O-ZcT4_CuiOUi0XR-K3ZWHIrz4cCHssSWKZFyM4aHtOhdPSq-cXnef399uvS-mxB4Ro7-5zJQuE-_tgU_Ro5KrD9uG_z-dQdV3eyXL2aG2Jj_onjqw/s320/tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435807962610059986" /></a><br /><br /><br />Here is a picture of the only tree for miles and miles and miles.<br /><br />In northern Kenya there is a village about every 50 km where you can get food and water. My plan was to eat lunch at village number one and sleep at village number two. I started late because of a flat tire but I made good time until lunch.<br /><br />From there the landscape turned into a rocky, moon-like desert and the road got gnarly. It was getting dark, and I still had 20 km to the next village when I decided to pitch camp for the night.<br /><br />If you have watched "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_Way_Down">The Long Way Down</a>," this is the part where they had a police escort. Apparently the road to Marsabit is infested with Somali bandits. People assured me the bandits planned their robberies carefully and wouldn't hi-jack a random tourist on a bike. Still it would have been nice to have some bushes or hills to hide my tent.<br /><br />There was a herd of antelope grazing in the distance. I admired them for a minute. I wished I knew whether there were lions in the area.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-8384696290188677422010-02-03T02:20:00.000-08:002010-02-03T02:24:50.267-08:00First Day in Northern Kenya<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOpG17ksROplW_CIU5ZiGeWa4g4uUlQ9dUMYf_iKpHd4uov_QSAgVweWlao-hOUeWLAJ7SBoDgOb4k7atRv6DO2rH1MZNaFNKIUeb5bmOmvruC7lZlg3ZEmksoVRQU34T9Ob7C14Sxg/s1600-h/kenya_day1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOpG17ksROplW_CIU5ZiGeWa4g4uUlQ9dUMYf_iKpHd4uov_QSAgVweWlao-hOUeWLAJ7SBoDgOb4k7atRv6DO2rH1MZNaFNKIUeb5bmOmvruC7lZlg3ZEmksoVRQU34T9Ob7C14Sxg/s320/kenya_day1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433960704760326082" /></a><br /><br />There was a time I stood on the ridge of a mountain and I looked out for miles and miles and I wondered if my eyes would ever get filled up. If after seeing so many glorious things, my eyes would not be able to take in another sunrise. But I've found that it is my memory which has been filled. I look at the picture above and I don't remember those mountains. It's not a great picture but it moves me and I feel a sort of wistfulness.<br /><br />There were tons of dik-dik in that scrub. They are curious timid kind of antelope as tall as your knee. They like to stand in the road and watch you cycling. Then when you get close they hop daintily into the scrub. Once I saw one hop through a flock of pheasant without disturbing them. Another time it made me laugh to see two dik-dik getting chased across the road by a squirrel.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-78522877926018993032010-02-01T02:18:00.000-08:002010-02-01T03:59:31.178-08:00Ethiopia wrap up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrXH3m1Rn8ijwweqSZN2Hdd5QvwtRkm-f8qczdZ6TsB2VQ5SvIcOOGWg9pIeuZ9YnvqOt0WUUC3C6q_H8D8w4OwWGBX-yznompxfg-2Ws9uhiBFu4tJ9IY3XYA5cSTSMcOgZqvJqM-A/s1600-h/bahir_dar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrXH3m1Rn8ijwweqSZN2Hdd5QvwtRkm-f8qczdZ6TsB2VQ5SvIcOOGWg9pIeuZ9YnvqOt0WUUC3C6q_H8D8w4OwWGBX-yznompxfg-2Ws9uhiBFu4tJ9IY3XYA5cSTSMcOgZqvJqM-A/s320/bahir_dar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433233790511123282" /></a><br /><br /><b>Addis Ababa</b><br /><br />Adis Ababa is the saddest city I have seen. Every Ethiopian beggar imagines that life is better in Addis Ababa.<br /><br />The city does wrong things to your heart. After a while, I'd see a beggar, missing both legs and an arm, drag himself inch by inch across the street and I'd think, "Come on, buddy. We all know you have a wheel chair hiding in the alley."<br /><br />Plus Addis smells like someone peed on it. I know that it's just thousands of people taking little pees everywhere, but sometimes it amuses me to imagine a giant Ethiopian Paul Bunyan waking up in the night.<br /><br />I had the worst diarrhea of my life in Addis. It was a gas diarrhea combo. The first night my stomach bloated up so badly with gas that I puked. For three days, I just lay incapacitated on my bed burping and farting as fast as I could.<br /><br /><b>Gondar</b><br /><br />Gondar is a mountain town with an ancient castle in the middle. The locals are wealthy and take enormous pride in their heritage.<br /><br />Restaurant #1: This place had live music and traditional dancing. Henok almost got into a fight with one of the performers who hit another female performer. It turned out they were married. I didn't see it.<br /><br />Restaurant #2: The owner had been inspired by a visit to France and had created a funky club themed restaurant. The cooks got into an argument with the waiter about killing a chicken. "We're women! It's a man's job!" "No way. I'm not killing it. It's against Jesus!"<br /><br />Restaurant #3: The musicians ask your name and sing a song about you in Amharic. "This is Dan. He seems nice. Sort of quiet."<br /><br /><b>Bahir Dar</b><br /><br />Bahir Dar was my favorite Ethiopian city. On the banks of Lake Tana. Drenched in rain and mosquitoes. Muddy and bohemian.<br /><br />Henok and I stayed in a poorer part of town. The ladies there sell tea for 5 cents a cup from their living rooms. As you sipped your tea, you could admire their doilies and pictures of their family. At other homes you could buy local beer for 3 cents. And some of the women probably sold their bodies. Life is hard and everyone has to eat.<br /><br />Bahir Dar is a cycling town. The weekend I was there, one of the main streets was shut down for bicycle races. Men, women, children, everyone on bicycles.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-13694667936741165302010-01-14T03:47:00.000-08:002010-01-14T04:32:02.519-08:00Conversations on the BusI recently had the opportunity to spend many days on the bus. The batteries on my music player soon went flat but I was fortunate to sit next to interesting people.<br /><br />In Zambia I talked to a retired banker. He had took an early retirement right before the bank was dissolved so he was one of the last few to receive a pension. Even though he worked as a banker, his education was in agriculture and he used his severance package to buy a farm. Now he was the head of the local farmers union.<br /><br />The government tries to encourage farmer cooperatives in Zambia. If you want subsidized fertilizer you have to join. Most of them are a waste of time.<br /><br />But this guy was was quite enthusiastic about organizing people. He'd help new farmers estimate how much food a field would produce. He'd tell them how much food to keep and how much to sell. He kept records if a chicken died in order to track the spread of diseases. He knew ahead of time if people were going to run out of food because of poor rains. In Zambia, farmers are supposed to sell to authorized millers and the price of maize is fixed. He petitioned the government so his farmers could sell to a local mill and save money on transport. Also they charged a higher than official price.<br /><br />One thing he was quite proud of was that he was able to secure loans for his farmers to buy fertilizer. Originally the lenders wanted to charge 100% interest but he was able to negotiate a loan for just 50% interest. Only one farmer wasn't able to repay the loan and the other farmers each had to chip in to cover the loss. The next year he took out a mortgage loan against his own property for an even lower rate.<br /><br />I asked him if he wasn't worried that he would lose his farm if the rains were poor, but it turns out he used part of the loan to insure the crops. I didn't know small scale Zambian farmers could do that.<br /><br />Sometimes people make me all kinds of optimistic.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-72318027278523408632009-12-05T05:57:00.000-08:002009-12-05T06:44:04.886-08:00Random Lagu Story<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgXYgfMH9IPKt4QaZI_hipnbwvAG4B-82oSKSRWx-aCpnANrpOWlSwd6RjeThkMzJiZWx-O70CFS7xg8WAkamGUazOP4ZSNoPVmY8Blbj0m5V1I_QOyyVhqJcXGcO2TogRrl6uD2zkJg/s1600-h/lagu.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgXYgfMH9IPKt4QaZI_hipnbwvAG4B-82oSKSRWx-aCpnANrpOWlSwd6RjeThkMzJiZWx-O70CFS7xg8WAkamGUazOP4ZSNoPVmY8Blbj0m5V1I_QOyyVhqJcXGcO2TogRrl6uD2zkJg/s320/lagu.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411752969559796066" /></a><br /><br />I wasn't able to visit Sudan on this cycling trip, but I have been there in the past, to visit my brother. At the time, he was working for Samaritan's Purse setting up schools. While I was there I shared a tukal (room) with Lagu, the <a href="bikesafari.net/2009/08/nanyuki.html">famous Sudanese mountain climber</a>.<br /><br />Anyway, Lagu is in Uganda these days. It was good to see him. This picture was taken on Christmas last year. This is a story that he told me.<br /><br />There is a stream near the Samaritan's Purse compound in Sudan. When I was there it was dry, but during the rainy season it has a couple feet of water.<br /><br />Once during the rains, a truck arrived at the banks of the stream. The driver had his assistant get out and test the water. They decided it wasn't too deep. Unfortunately, the thing they didn't consider was that the bottom of the stream was just drifting sand. They were soon very stuck.<br /><br />They worked all afternoon but couldn't move. In the evening, they decided to give up for the night and use the Samaritan's Purse/Community tractor to pull them out in the morning.<br /><br />The next day Lagu happened to pass by the stream in the course of his morning activities. The truck had fallen on its side and sunk into the sand. Only little bit was sticking out above the water.<br /><br />The tractor crew tended to sleep late and by the time they got out of bed and down to the stream, the truck was completely submerged. It took them a while to find it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-91280349062398017352009-11-29T10:47:00.000-08:002009-11-29T08:12:52.039-08:00Lebna<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsHPZlMYV7FtAh-qAwdJDpj4iQ8tBl7gmI29t25JhX1Lrs3iRqafjuar_wfyzg-JFxEOmHJ6Md_xhVA4J3L6FYyt6DoCx64PM1FmFkx1JxA7N7Wo97lmfHWSMigPaGGYMRVx2ZJe1jPQ/s1600-h/boy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsHPZlMYV7FtAh-qAwdJDpj4iQ8tBl7gmI29t25JhX1Lrs3iRqafjuar_wfyzg-JFxEOmHJ6Md_xhVA4J3L6FYyt6DoCx64PM1FmFkx1JxA7N7Wo97lmfHWSMigPaGGYMRVx2ZJe1jPQ/s320/boy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377299656338100386" /></a><br /><br />I've changed the name and picture in this story for privacy.<br /><br />Henok and I met Lebna the evening we arrived in Bahir Dar. We were drinking coffee by the lake and he came with his friends to talk to us. He was in grade six. He spoke English well. He was getting special tutoring from an American organization that helps orphans. He wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. You could see he was exceptionally bright.<br /><br />We weren't expecting him, but the next morning Lebna was waiting at the door of our hotel. Apparently he went to school in the afternoons and anyway he says, "Today is Saturday." So we took him with us to breakfast. We stayed in Bahir Dar for quite a few days and got to know Lebna pretty well.<br /><br />After breakfast he asks can he have $10 because he wants to buy an Oxford Dictionary.<br /><br />When you are cycling through Ethiopia, probably one person per kilometer will ask you to give them something. Mostly it's kids, but sometimes it is people with real needs and I wish I could give them something. I never do. I said no to over a thousand people per month while I was there.<br /><br />But the Oxford Dictionary idea was unique and charming so I said, "How about this? You can earn some money. Henok and I are going to Gondar. We want to store some luggage here and pick it up on our way back. We'll pay you a dollar per day to keep it for us."<br /><br />The next morning a disappointed Lebna tells us that he can't store our stuff. His mother refused. "She says that our house is not secure enough and if thieves found out we had your luggage they could kill us."<br /><br />He also admitted that the story about the Oxford Dictionary wasn't true. The truth is that he was really asking for the money for his mom. She has HIV and needs money for treatment. He was afraid to tell us because of the HIV stigma.<br /><br />I consider myself pretty progressive, but the truth is that if he had told me the truth at the beginning I probably wouldn't have agreed to help him in the first place. I liked the Oxford Dictionary story. It was charming. It was solvable. A one time gift of ten bucks. Done.<br /><br />HIV is a heavy thing, I don't know how to handle it. I especially don't know how to handle it when you are twelve years old. When your dad has died. When your mom is sick.<br /><br />Lebna lived in a shanty town. The house was small. There was a sitting room in the front. He and his mom shared the bedroom in the back. They had a television in the bed room. Some evenings Henok, Lebna and I would rent a kid friendly video and sit on his mom's bed and watch it together.<br /><br />Lebna's mom was a sweet lady. She was frail and thin. She didn't speak English. She was getting some free ARVs at a clinic for her HIV. I got the impression the clinic was some distance away. The clinic had given her some HIV posters and she had them hanging on the walls of the sitting room.<br /><br />When we left we gave Lebna's mom $20. Henok told her that Lebna wanted to buy an Oxford Dictionary, but she knew their budget and should choose how to spend it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-23719695301737098802009-11-23T03:44:00.000-08:002009-11-23T04:05:27.898-08:00The Birds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-deIp-J-RORNg1rRCrWySn21JJBM4dB2cxpUppna4-YYKWrHCNhIPTWDgQmRcYXYk7CvN2yY4LdVote7_-GNuEb0q7dfpPWK7ZJkF97kzsOtO6cJRTXZC9MZkvXZDEI8g2Sx-9vg1-A/s1600/2_vultures.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-deIp-J-RORNg1rRCrWySn21JJBM4dB2cxpUppna4-YYKWrHCNhIPTWDgQmRcYXYk7CvN2yY4LdVote7_-GNuEb0q7dfpPWK7ZJkF97kzsOtO6cJRTXZC9MZkvXZDEI8g2Sx-9vg1-A/s320/2_vultures.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407264439743638802" /></a><br /><br />You see a lot of birds when you cycle. All kinds of different interesting birds with long tail feathers, and funny beaks and so many colours. But normally it's hard to take pictures of them.<br /><br />This picture was taken in Ethiopia where a driver had killed seven donkeys the night before. There were around 200 vultures feasting and having a good time.<br /><br />In Ethiopia, you always suspect that the drivers are a bit buzzed, and bug eyed from chewing "chat." Chat is a mild stimulant and drivers like it because it keeps them awake. It is Ethiopia's fourth largest export.<br /><br />The thing which I hadn't realized is that donkey skin is very tough except for a patch near the tail. The vultures go in the back door and eat them from the inside out. Which is a bit gruesome really.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8243237223728274501.post-52203809169029700292009-11-13T00:04:00.000-08:002009-11-13T00:56:43.368-08:00Camping in the forest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIi_Xf3Z4tVCtV18AuW7h7U46H67RpqOextNri1qIvE5PHkGCFxWuSNdgyXTuprNK1z2SOcd4mjPIUS5X70NjLM9wdahebdOZvdqbn1eBZyeoVf7votf89XocSyRBmFui35sUAu_gmA/s1600-h/leoleopard_mark.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIi_Xf3Z4tVCtV18AuW7h7U46H67RpqOextNri1qIvE5PHkGCFxWuSNdgyXTuprNK1z2SOcd4mjPIUS5X70NjLM9wdahebdOZvdqbn1eBZyeoVf7votf89XocSyRBmFui35sUAu_gmA/s320/leoleopard_mark.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403496940598152658" /></a><br /><br />One night in Namibia, I heard a leopard outside my tent making cat noises and knocking over my stuff. I wanted to take a picture of it, but I also wanted to keep my arm in one piece so I didn't.<br /><br />The mantra white people repeat is that you are safe if you sleep in a tent. I slept fine.<br /><br />In the morning, I found this old claw mark which I thought it was pretty impressive. It goes all the way through the bark. Judging from the other claw marks, the leopard used to like to sit in the tree near my tent and was surprised to find me in its territory.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1