Ludwar, Kenya to Lokichar, Kenya: Break days, Sick days, and Holidays

On break days and sick days I get a little lax with the camera, sorry.

It was nice to finally have a break in Ludwar. Not only was it a much needed break from all the sand and wind and Abu Walad Sandwich Biscuits and lack of roads of the past few weeks, but it was our first break day since arriving in Africa. We had intended to take a break day about once a week, but we found ourselves in Ludwar having not taken a break for 13 days, almost twice that.

In addition to just being able to rest – and have internet, something we'd only had once since arriving in Addis – the other nice thing about being in one place is you get to feel like you know where things are. We found the bank on the way in, and split up for reconnaissance on the two grocery stores across the street. Mine ended up being a little ritzy: not that it looked ritzy, but the staff followed you around with a basket, and the prices were a little higher than you might like, but... BUT, they had chocolate. Jacob's was more of the bulk foods variety: cheaper, without staff that followed you around with a basket, but still they are just as helpful if you ask, and some of them sit in random places swinging electric fly swatters. Zzzz! Zzzz!

So the first day I settled for chocolate and cereal with milk, both things I hadn't had since I could remember (chocolate – probably a Snickers around Greece or Macedonia; cereal with milk: Weetabix in Bristol, Britain, at Hattie's. And what was I having now? Weetabix. Thanks, British colonization!). For dinner Jacob taught me how to use his stove, since he was tired of always cooking and his stove was better for two people than mine. Indome (Ramen), soy chunks (for protein) spinach, and peppers.

So, we knew where the bank was, and the grocery store, and... who cares about anything else? Okay, but the next day I also made use of a hardware store, since you might recall the water bottle cage had fallen off of my fork. I was determined to put them both on irrebreakably, so hose clamps it was. And of course by "a" hardware store I mean "three" hardware stores, because Africa.

Before visiting the hardware store, of course, I had to be in the business of getting money, because I didn't have any. I went to the only ATMs in town, walked up to the one on the left, and tried not to gawk at the one on the right, because there was a white person using it. Eventually I found my gumption and open with the dashing,

"Hey."

Volo was a missionary from Ukraine, and after some awkward -trying to use the ATMs while talking- I humbly suggested we meet up after, so we did. He kindly offered Jacab and I a place to stay, about 30km east of Ludwar. I wasn't sure it would work, not least of all because the road, I was told, was mostly sand. Okay, all sand. And I could not bike over sand. (Jacob, of course, just stands up and powers through). But, I wanted to make something of this rather fortuitous meeting, so I suggested we head to the hotel and convene with Jacob.

In the end we settled for lunch. Jacob would have wanted to either bike to Volo's and then bike from there (since Jacob is bicycling all the way around the world – no rides unless absolutely necessary), or get a ride to Volo's and a ride back. The ride back would not have come until Monday, and it was Friday, and we were already itching to get back on the road after not even a whole break day.

Volo knew a good place for lunch – fried chicken, chips (AKA fries), and coke, as Kenyan as it gets – and we got to talking about travel and, well, the things you talk about when you're bicycling through Africa and you meet a missionary. He told us about the election, which was featuring very prominently on TV, and taught us some Swahili, and how to get someone's attention. I was hoping for something polite and American like "excuse me," but in Kenya you just make a hissing sound that opens with a bit of a "k," like "skssss." Skssss, skssss, he called the waitress over, and asked for a bottle of water.

With a standing invite to Volo's place – that weekend or any other time – he dropped us off at the hotel, we snapped a selfie, and Jacob and I were back on our own.

This time my visit to the grocery store was a bit more comprehensive than the last (not that any visit involving chocolate can't be called comprehensive), but I ended up not feeling well that night, and settling for Weetabix again. Jacob concocted some fancy Asian noodle dish – that is, Indome (Ramen), and soy chunks, and some vegetable, and peanuts. Because, if you add peanuts to something, that makes it Asian, obviously. He also tried some street fish, despite my suggestion that might not be the best idea. But Jacob, as you know, is not one to worry about getting sick later. He's more about the now.

My not feeling well manifested itself as diarrhea that night, so up and out of the mosquito net it was, at least three or four times, and mosquito hunting time it was, as I rested on the porcelain throne. Jacob's mosquito net, he would say, had holes in it, so at least we both had equal chances of getting malaria.

The next day we hoped for pavement, but it was not to be. We wanted to make it to Kitale in three days: Kitale, a beacon of hope, of paved roads and big grocery stores and ATMs, more and better of everything than Ludwar, and "highway quality roads" to Nairobi. We still figured we could do it if the road wasn't quite as bad as it was that day, but it was pretty bad, and I was pretty tired. At noon I suggested a 3 hour nap might be nice, and Jacob allowed me 30 minutes, and I allowed me 20, since by 30 I'd be too far in to deep sleep to get up, I thought. It was quite nice, lying there, not doing anything, but Jacob tapped my shoe and it was time to go.

Later that day Jacob would be feeling it too, so we'd both take frequent breaks, heads down over our handlebars, and for one break we both ended up on the ground and I just wanted to sleep. We decided malaria tests were in order. The next city, Lokichar, seemed to get farther and farther away – 30 miles, then 20, then 15, then 12.5, then 11... but eventually we made it, and to the first guest house we went, right next to the hospital, and there we met Richard and Karen.

At the time I was so delirious I had no idea who these people were but they were kind and Richard offered to drive us to the hospital. It wasn't 100m, but it was farther than I wanted to walk. I was, I would later be told, green.

Richard and Karen, though, do deserve an introduction. They were in the area for Karen's PhD thesis, which is on how the beliefs of the tribes affect their medical care. They are both from South Africa, but have received US Citizenship since Richard taught Engineering in the US for so long, and as a result he can work almost anywhere.

It was too soon to be showing malaria symptoms from the night in Ludwar (malaria typically takes 3-5 days to manifest), but they tested us anyways – both negative. We were treated for gut bacteria (eg giardia), and given IVs, and sent home to rest. Richard and Karen had dinner prepared for us and gave us bottled water, for which we were most grateful.

And they told us where to get these fried dough things for breakfast, called mandazi.

The next few days are a bit of a haze, but we wouldn't leave Lokichar for 7 nights. Every time we thought we were getting better, one of us would get sick again. First it was giardia, then it was malaria, and then Jacob got food poisoning (from the fish, we assume). On the last day, it was simply a headache for me, and sore eye sockets, which James said was typical of malaria.

Oh, yea. James.

The second day we were there we met James and his wife, Gloria. James does work with circumcision, mostly outreach and documentation, because it's documentation that gets funding. There is, apparently, significant evidence that circumcision reduces incidences of HIV, so there is a significant push to get young men circumcised (they do it at 10 or 11 here, with local anesthesia). James travels throughout the impact areas and gets to know the doctors and the tribal leaders (since it's them you have to convince), and documents the population and how many get circumcised and how many get infected with HIV. In the time he's been doing it, there has, apparently, been a marked reduction in HIV cases. It must be very rewarding work.

So it was that between Richard and Karen (who drove into the bush on the third or fourth day) and James and Gloria we were incredibly well taken care of. James knew doctors in the area and called one in one day, he arranged piki-pikis (motorcycle taxis) for us when we weren't up to walking, he made sure we got the best prices at the hospital and town pharmacy, and he always came with us to the hospital and was asking how we were. As we were better or worse, Jacob or I would take up getting food from town and cooking, but mostly it was provided by James and Gloria and cooked by the staff at the guest house. There was talk of the raiders on the route ahead, and how a bus got robbed and three people shot dead and a woman raped, but we weren't in any condition to decide what we were going to do next.

Then there was Thanksgiving. For my non-US readers, Thanksgiving is a holiday where you get together with your family and eat a lot of food.

By the time Thanksgiving came around I had just about forgotten it. Richard and Karen had mentioned it in passing and James and Gloria had asked about it, but I was too tired and frankly, it seemed like a lot of heartache to endure remembering it and just having rice and beans for dinner. But Gloria wanted to make it special. That morning she asked what we usually had, and Jacob and I went through the list. I was at the table having just had tea, and Jacob was lying in bed with a headache, saying through the window: turkey, sweet potato, biscuits, gravy, rice, butter beans, cranberry sauce...

"Well," said Gloria, "We don't have much of those things here. But we'll have an African Thanksgiving. With mutton."

And, Jacob reminded me from his bed through the window, there was something else you always have after dinner...

Pie.

All this talk had inspired me, but there wasn't any lard available. How could you have a pie crust without lard? And how could you have a pie without a pie crust? But there on the table was my answer: crackers. And so, I became unstoppable: We were going to have pie.

We made a list of what we needed to make pies and decided trying to find sweet potato was worth a shot. James and I descended onto the village, him with the local knowledge and language and me with what little money we had left. We were close to running out, having only planned for three days and some extra to Kitale with ATMs, and having spent 5 now in Lokichar without ATMs. But I wanted pie.

So all the vendors were told about how important it was that we get everything we need, but even so we couldn't find sweet potato. It was alright... potatoes were... almost as good... kind of. To be honest, it's good we found anything, because the bridge to the next city was "out." Everywhere you went, nobody had anything. "I'm sorry," they'd say, "the bridge is out." How to ford the river, whether to risk getting shot by a raider, it was all far from our minds that day.

So we got back and the cooking commenced. Gloria did the mutton and the mashed potatoes, and I did the pies. For an oven, we flipped a huge pot upside-down on Jacob's camp stove. The crust was based on a graham cracker crust recipe I totally didn't make up, except it was the crackers we had on hand. There was to be apple pie, and a meringue, whipped by hand, also totally not made recipes. I whipped. Jacob whipped. James whipped, in awe. "You didn't add anything to it?" he said. I didn't. Just some good 'ol fashioned muscle, I said, making an arm.

"Stiff peaks!" I kept saying to everyone. "We want stiff peaks!"

"What?"

And then, only after everybody's arm hurt, did we get a stiff peak.

So it was that for Thanksgiving 2017, I celebrated in Lokichar, Kenya, with Jacob and James and Gloria, my family at the time. We had mutton and mashed potato and apple pie and lemon meringue. Though the apple pie was more like an apple crumble, and the lemon meringue collapsed so much when I tried to serve it, it was more like lemon flavored, buttery graham crackers. Cream of Tartar in rural Africa? Not in my lifetime. But it still received many "mmmms" from the crowd, and everybody ate all of it, so it must not have been too bad.

Achievement unlocked?

Todenyang to Lodwar: Out of the Bush and into the Hotel

The Abu Walad Sandwich biscuits we had were labeled “Better Taste!” by the way. We continued towards what appeared to be a city, hitting some mud that we had to walk through, almost locking my front wheel again. Tire clearance – it's a thing. We fantasized about omelets, apparently a thing in Kenya. Omelettes with ham and cheese and honey... yes, surely they'd have them in this small town near the border.

It wasn't a town – it was the mission. And they had guns. And they were grumpy. They gave us water and sent us on our way – then asked us back and gave us four packs of cookies for 20 Bur, about twice what we paid in Ethiopia. To be fair, it wasn't their currency (the Kenyan Shilling), and it was probably expensive to get food that far away from civilization. The guns and high prices and curtness (except for the only woman in camp who wore a sheet... what was it with women in sheets near the border, we wondered?) didn't seem very Catholic. Whatever the case, they were Cappucino flavored, a welcome change from Abu Walad.

We continued on the road, now lacking in mud, replaced with the occasional crossing of a dry, sandy riverbed. I walked most of these, Jacob just powered through. Biking on the doubletrack is a game – you try and find the least sandy part, but it's often the most washboardy. I can bike faster on washboard than Jacob can bike in sand, but to each their own. Sometimes you bike over the plants on the side of the road, offering more traction than the deep sand. Often, you walk. Often. So often. We were grateful it was the dry season – the wet season, no doubt, would be mostly mud, and the river crossings would not only be actual rivers but would probably have crocodiles. They lived, apparently, in the very nearby Lake Turkana, and a one mile venture upstream to munch on white man didn't seem to too far-fetched.

Biking through sand and dirt and mud is an experience. When I first read the article “Bikepacking through Africa,” which recommended 29” diameter, fat tires, I though... that's great for 10% of Africa, but what about when you're on roads? I came to believe that just for that 10%, it would have been worth it. It's difficult to describe the way the sand eats your front tire, stopping you dead or forcing you to turn into more sand, eating your morale, too. You have to fight your instincts to turn towards where the bike is falling, because there's a narrow track your tire will get traction on, and the rest will make you fall (I fell at least three times). You have to balance by shifting your weight, not by steering.

And you have to pedal.

Indeed, you have two choices in the bush: forwards or backwards. No matter how hard the going gets, you can't just stay there – you'll die of thirst. Combined with the dirt roads of the climb to 3000m a week ago, these were the worst roads of the tour. You are constantly searching for a good track; often, when you find it, it lasts no more than 10 meters. Often there isn't a good track – you just pedal and pray your rump can deal with the pain. Drenched in sweat (of that day and the day previous) shoes full of sand, low on water, your only sustenance Abu Walad sandwich biscuits, you have no choice but to carry on.

Averaging 5.5 mph, we finally made it to Lowareng'ak, the first town from the border. Nobody wanted our Ethiopian bur, and people wanted our USD but there was nowhere to exchange it. Finally, we happened across a police patrol, and after some literal back-and-fourth about where to go, we landed at a restaurant in the middle of town to negotiate lunch. I keep a few 20s in case of emergency and had a 10 from paying $50 for my Ethiopian visa – we would trade the 10 for a kilo of rice, half a kilo of beef, and 12 chipati, oily bread things very reminiscent of Indian na'an. Lunch and dinner, we hoped... and still 85 miles to pavement and the first “major” town where we hoped they would change currency, or at least have an ATM... and maybe wifi... and maybe a hotel. It had been 10 days since our last break day, and with the now-lack-of-roads, we were feeling it.

I took out my 10 and inadvertently smelled it. US currency does have a smell, I realized. A smell people wanted. I handed it to the cop, who admired it, then handed it to the chef, who admired it. This was some relic for them – the first time they'd held US currency, probably, and maybe the last. We were lucky to be from the US – lucky we could so easily carry “spare 20s,” so valuable and highly regarded almost everywhere in the world. I hadn't expected to need them – I certainly hadn't hoped to need them – but I was glad, now, that I had them. I made a note to get more in Nairobi, if possible.

We would later realize we'd gotten ripped off, especially for the chipati, but at the time, we didn't care. We blogged while waiting for the food, and ate, and refilled our water, and went on our way. The road was gravelly for some time, and I saw 8s and 9s on my speedometer: ten minutes of hope that Lodwar was only two days away, not three, before plunging into sand and nearly falling over for the tenth time. Back to 5s and 6s.

The rest of the day was the Africa I expected when I said I'd bike across Africa. The roads were as I described – not really roads – the locals were only partly interested in us for our money (compared to Ethiopia), it was sunny and hot, and there was a headwind. At one point we passed what we could only conclude to be the tracks of a hippopotamus. That's probably wrong, but we couldn't think of anything else that would make such big tracks, so far apart, with no hooves. Butt sheep and fart goats occasionally kept us company. A car stopped and asked us about our trip – Maxwell, sympathetic to our situation (no local currency), gave us water and 100 KSH each, “for a Coke.” Definitely not Ethiopia. We thanked him, and he thanked us – he was driving a truck purchased by a US aid organization.

As the sun was setting my front tire slowly went flat. We pulled over to fix it, and I also booted the tire – I had noticed a bulge in the sidewall on previous day; thanks, Schwalbe. Up and ready to go, and then my back tire flatted – I must have put it on some thorns to fix the front one. The sun low in the sky, we gave up for the day, and carried our bikes as far from the road as we could get. Jacob set his down on some thorns and flatted. Some locals watched us, but I went over to talk to them, and they dissipated. Nobody asked me for money. Definitely not Ethiopia.

I fell asleep watching the silhouettes of camels travel down the road.

The next day was much the same: sand, dirt, and a headwind... and Abu Walad for breakfast (now better tasting!). We got water from a borehole in the river, and made it to a minor town where a restaurant owner would trade currency with us. Food! Glorious, glorious food. We even got a bill, clearly an indication of civilized life. The road out of town was “paved,” meaning it had been paved 5 years ago or so, but had since... decayed. The headwind continued. We made camp 26 miles from Lodwar... just one day before a hotel, a shower, and wifi.

My armpits burned: I suspected an infection from four days of sweat. My clothes were white from the salt of my sweat. I had saddle sores, which happens when the salt from your sweat gets in your chamis (cycling pants), rubs off the skin from your rump, and then rubs into the raw skin. We had two liters of water each for dinner and a 26-mile ride. For breakfast the next morning, we split my last pack of Abu Walad sandwich cookies and the drippings of Jacob's empty peanut butter can. Oh, and the Abu Walad sandwich cookies? They weren't better tasting.

Jk they totally were. *cries*

You can guess how the next morning went. “Road.” Headwind. “Mostly downhill,” which I'm convinced is Jacob's way of being sadistic. A water bottle cage broke off of my bike, unsurprising given road conditions of the past few days. We did manage to find a borehole in a riverbed, so we didn't get too dehydrated. But spirits were low.

Finally, after three days of “road,” ten days since the last thing you could call a “grocery store,” out of money and water and food and caked in salt from days of our own sweat, we made it to Lodwar. We found a hotel with wifi (WORKING WIFI!!!), and I sighed the happiest, longest sigh as I stepped into the shower, so much so I wondered if people outside would think we were gay and kick us out (I was in the shower alone. Just me and the shower. Enjoying each other). One knob – the perfect temperature.

Time for a break day.

And for breakfast tomorrow?

Something besides goddamn sandwich biscuits.

Konso to Todenyang: Into the Bush

We left Konso and managed to find water on the way out, seeing a large water container and asking the locals if we could have some. I wondered if we should feel ambiguous about using their water, but they didn't seem to mind (nobody ever does – I get the impression water shortages here aren't as widespread as many Americans think they are). Konso was halfway up a climb and we had to climb the rest of the way, the usual kids on bicycles and teens on motorcycles tailing us out until they realized we weren't going to give them money. The descent was slow and steady, and at one point as I was dodging potholes through a town of spear-wielding kids, one of them threw a spear at me.

It was a bad throw – I didn't even had to dodge it – but it was... an experience. Have a spear thrown at me? Check. This was his version of the “give me money” rock throw we'd seen before: not maliciously intended, just intending on doing whatever it takes to get money. Of course, a rock could give me a welt or at worse get stuck in my chain – a spear could get stuck in my wheel, break all my spokes (making my bike useless and irreparable in the bush), and send me tumbling over the handlebars. With a shudder, I recalled that boy who had been hit by a car showing off to me a few days before. People who don't realize the potential consequences of their actions can be very dangerous, to themselves and others.

The sun was setting and we were getting nervous about a place to sleep. I tried miming to an old man I felt good about, but he could only point down the road, speaking no English, then miming for money. We passed a church, blaring its service out of a speaker, a few kids leaving the sermon to come ask us for money. I didn't feel good about it. 15 minutes later, Jacob had me ask someone he felt good about. This person mimed about a shack across the road but that it was locked, then thought for a minute, and pointed to what looked like an animal shed, or a house under construction. We and our flock of onlooking children went over and yes, it would work – though, being under construction, the “walls” were quite see-through. We made camp with children peering through the walls and climbing in the windows, wondering when privacy would come. I tried to sweep the floor a bit, and three children jumped in to help. At least we felt welcome – hopefully they wouldn't ask for money.

Around 5:30, I went outside and mimed to one of the older ones that we'd like to sleep, and could people please go. Surprisingly, it worked – after about 20 minutes we were left alone. An older women waved with two hands, either enthusiastically saying goodbye or enthusiastically wishing we'd stay and sleep well. People walked by very closely outside our shack – to and from church, we imagined, as the loudspeaker wailed until 9 PM. We shut off our electronics when we heard footsteps, not wanting to attract any more attention. It would rain, hard but briefly, overnight, but we were safe under an aluminum roof. I moved my tent farther from the edge. Jacob rolled over in his sleep.

The next morning the loudspeaker woke us at 5:30. I tried to blog from under my raincoat to hide the light, but at 6 AM, the children had reappeared – no doubt to see how white people got up in the morning. A few days ago we'd stopped to photograph baboons and realized we treated them the same way Africans treated us – like zoo animals. There in that shack, the analogy was complete.

For breakfast we had coffee and Abu Walad Sandwich Biscuits. The package was labeled: “Better taste!”

Hi mom.

We asked to use a bathroom and someone even poured water for us to wash our hands. Nobody asked us for money. While Jacob used the bathroom, I whipped out my harmonica, to varying reaction. We got the two-handed wave from the lady again, and went on our way.

That day we would have a fairly sizable descent which strongly reminded me of the game Far Cry, where you and your friends are stranded on a tropical island and have to escape – I felt the developer of that game had probably spent a lot of time on that chunk of road.

"My brother! The white man approaches! What? You have no pants? Ride my back, then, and we shall give chase together!"

After the descent, the road was flat for a long time. The sun was burning the back of my neck, so I managed to barter a scarf off a lady walking down the road for the last of my Bur, 150 (about $6). I think she was asking 110, about $4, but I misinterpreted... oh, well. She can use that $2 more than I can. And, no more sunburn on my neck!

We started running low on water and Jacob tried to convince me to filter from a brown river. I asked if he'd ever done that before – “Yes, once” – and if he was fine – “For a few days” – and what happened after a few days – “I got a bacterial infection and had to go to the hospital.” Pass.

We went through a village big enough to have a restaurant and got – you guessed it – gera and tibs. They also gave us some water, but not before a very drunk teenager came onto me and then Jacob, including but not limited to grabbing our behinds. We wondered briefly if he had been trying to rob us, but neither of us keep anything in our pockets, so it didn't matter anyways. We're good looking guys.

We left town to find a secluded place to filter water. Of course, a few people pulled off the road to watch, including two guys carrying a dying goat on their motorcycle. As they watched us in silence, the goat bled out onto one foot, and the tailpipe. We took off, and a giant truck passed us, and then some goats. As we came, the goats scattered. “Big truck? Whatever,” said Jacob, imitating the goats, “AHHH!!! IT'S A BICYCLE ON A MURDEROUS RAMPAGE!!! RUN AWAY!!!”

The scenery continued to change, and feel a little more rural – people became less and less common. A climb began, slowly at first, just as I ran out of water. We were at the lowest altitude we'd been at thus far, so it was hotter than it had been thus far. A truck passed me, the passenger filtering water out the window. My bike started wobbling – at first I thought I was going delirious, but then I looked down and realized I had a flat tire. I pumped it up, hopefully to last until I could catch up with Jacob.

While I fixed my flat Jacob held out his water bottle and the first car stopped to give us water. Flat with a purpose? Maybe. We continued up, and I located a piece of rubber to use as a “real” boot, since I suspect the flat was caused by a tiny rock caught in the cardboard boot I had installed a few days ago.

Reusing is more efficient than recycling, right?

At some point we reached a water pump and stopped to do... everything. Bathe, fill water, do laundry. It was heavenly. Three Hamer tribesman joined us – by which I mean watched us – and they wanted 3 Bur each to document the occasion. We decided to try the razor blades: at 15 Bur a pack of 6, a slightly better deal. For one razor blade each, they accepted, and now we have a photo of three Hamer tribesman staring at Jacob's camera while I bathe at a water pump in rural Ethiopia. (still need to get this photo from him)

The climb continued, and we were passed by a number of trucks with burning brakes – steep parts to come. At one point Jacob noted what we deemed the “butt sheep.” Why are they called butt sheep, you ask? Well, take a look.

The good news – I was laughing so hard I could hardly climb. Better that than the opposite! The bad news... well, there wasn't really any. Refreshed from the bath, wearing clean clothes, topped up on water, and with an irremovable smile, we climbed.

At the top, we finally turned onto the dirt road we'd been anticipating since Addis – what was supposed to be our first dirt road of Ethiopia. But, this is Africa: it was our third. Still, it felt like an accomplishment. Hamer tribesmen came and went, and asked for money like all the rest. Some were very, very tall. Some had guns. We made camp in the best spot we could find – there were cattle nearby, but it was better than people. Again, it would rain. I'd jump out to put on the fly. Jacob would roll over in his sleep.

We woke up to my back tire flat, again. I put on the rubber boot as Jacob patched the tire, and as we worked, a Hamer tribesman with a semi-automatic WWII-era assault rifle approached and checked us out. We traded him a razor for a photo, and he left. Breakfast? Abu Walad Sandwich biscuits – now better tasting. We fished them out of our bags, surrounded, for an unknown reason, by bees. I counted at least 20 bees.

The next time we saw butt sheep, as we ate some Abu Walad, they were lead out of the bush by goats – goats with gas. “What's wrong with them?” said Jacob. “Why do they keep farting?” So, fart goats and butt sheep... the funniest animals we saw in Africa.

After some time, rain came. We made it to another village with a restaurant, a touristy village with many English speakers. One of them, an 11-year-old named Shelo, took to us and helped us find a restaurant, a water pump, and a place to sleep. We had to decline the place to sleep since the wifi didn't work. They were asking $15 when we had paid only $8 a few nights ago in Arbaminch – worth it, if there had been wifi. We gave Shelo $1 and left town.

When we'd gotten water, one of the locals had asked us if we should really be drinking it – that white people usually drank “packet water.” We had no idea what that was, but Shelo said they served water from the pump at the hotels, and that was good enough for us. We both had, after all, many months of drinking various qualities of tap water under out belts.

I had extremely mixed feelings about Shelo. He felt very genuine and very kind, but he was selling hard the camping spot, and gave me a card of a tour guide friend of his. I felt he was a well-meaning kid who was being sucked into a money-oriented culture. It was the heart-tearing feeling I usually have through the day in Africa, but about just one person. I hoped he turned out alright.

As we left town, the rain stopped. We ran into some Japanese tourists, which was a nice treat. I gave out a few cards and hinted to one that maybe we could bike the Pamir highway together? Maybe. They'd all been backpacking for various amounts of time, so meeting up in Istanbul in four months didn't seem too far-fetched – but you never really know with these things.

The road was pretty awful dirt and sand – wet dirt and sand – for a good ten minutes, and then... brand new pavement, not even painted. We passed the team of people marking the center line. Four weeks ago, maybe two, we would have continued through wet dirt and sand. Instead, we found ourselves roaring through the African bush – the real secluded African bush we'd been expecting for days now – at 15-20 mph. We passed a few tribesmen on occasion, some wielding guns, but for the most part, it seemed we had achieved the impossible: we were alone.

Just some redecorating...

Tall anthill

I wanted to open one of these; I couldn't resist. I wanted to lick it then... I resisted.

That night, we camped in the bush.

“Small bush,” said Jacob. “The bushes are small, the birds are small, the antelope are dick-dicks” (yes, we saw dick-dicks, and their alien eyes). “No lions here.”

But there were huge anthills.

I would wake up that night about midnight to use the bathroom. There, farther from any large city than I'd been in a long, long time, I looked up at the stars. They were magnificent.

The next morning we decided against coffee, being short on water. Breakfast? Abu Walad sandwich cookies, now better tasting.

Notice the anthill in the background...

A two-hour parade averaging 18mph, past many native tribes, including a lot of naked people bathing in stagnant water (and even drinking it, I think? – they must have incredible immune systems), we made it to Omorate, and Ethiopian immigration. Some kerfuffle about why we didn't register our bikes at the airport later, and we were stamped and good to go to Kenya. The immigration officer was kind enough to give us 8 liters of water, and we rested in the shade of the porch of the office as it filtered. The road was paved until Kenya, we were told, and then... well.

Dung beetle!

18 miles to the border station, with a headwind, and the vegetation getting sparser and sparser. A few men with guns and one woman wearing a sheet that we wondered about. They checked our passports, and as suddenly as the pavement had appeared the day before, it disappeared. What was left couldn't even be called a road – it was just the route taken by the most recent 4x4. It was the Africa I expected.

Sand, dirt, and mud were the name of the game for the next three miles to the border. Did I mention headwind? Even Jacob had to walk from time to time, which is saying something. The first time we hit mud, my front wheel froze, too clogged from detritus under the front fender. To an audience of what seemed like an entire tribe, I discarded the fender and left it for the next tourist – or so I thought. One of the tribesman picked it up and put it between his legs, as if it were a saddle on an invisible steed, standing proudly. The other tribespeople kept saying things and gesturing towards the fender.

“I hope he makes a rocket ship out of it,” said Jacob. I hope so, too. The next bicycle tourist who comes through – let me know what happened to my fender.

I had 10 Ethiopian Bur left, about $0.30, and I ended up using it to pay 4 kids to push me about 200 meters through deep sand. Cheating? Perhaps. But, what else was I going to do with it? I considered it further investment in getting Ethiopia to space.

For a while, we were alone, with only the dirt and sand and headwind for company. I felt it an odd sensation to be riding over bare footprints. A group of woman passed us, all carrying large piles of wood on their heads, all wearing traditional clothing and jewelry – colored bracelets around their ankles, a towel around their waist, and nothing else. It was singular. (Jacob has the photo)

At one point three tribesmen came up to us and asked for food and money. Jacob offered them razor blades, I'm not sure why. They each took one and then the tallest, at least 7' tall, towering over Jacob at 6'6”, towering over me at 6'2”, gestured enthusiastically at his balls. We laughed, and Jacob gave him another. We tried to get them to trade razors for a picture, but they wouldn't. They still wanted more; trying to make conversation, they asserted that Jacob was the “Chief Consulate” and I was the “mutato.” This is fair: out of money since my ATM card stopped working, I had gestured towards Jacob when the asked me; he also had the razor blades; and, he is taller and stronger than I am.

More headwind, sand, and a group of kids playing an oddly intense game of “touch the bike:” darting in and out, multiple times, laughing, egging each other on. Clearly, bikes did not come this way often. Finally, we made it to the Kenyan border station. They took our passports and we passed out on the porch. “Current mood,” said Jacob, “bare cement is better than Thermarest.”

We had made it to Kenya.

They were very kind to us there – they gave us water and indicated if we stayed a few hours, they'd share their fish with us – minnows drying on the cement; supposedly sweet. We wanted to keep going. The guard who took our passports was especially kind and good-vibey. He kept saying how glad he was were were in Kenya and how welcome we were. He corrected my pronunciation on the few Swahili words I knew. He kept saying, “We speak English here, not like in Ethiopia. Nor will we ask you for money.” I wanted desperately to believe that, but time would tell.

“We gave you Barack Obama,” he said. “Now, we will give you hospitality. Please, feel at home. Welcome.” There was a Spanish mission down the road, he said, where we could pay for food and lodging.

Ten more miles over sand and dirt and real washboard, and we made it to the Spanish mission – which was abandoned. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like they just up and left – recently. Partially decayed goat skeletons were everywhere, even a cow. Hawks roosted in the rafters. We slept on the porch, dealing with dead animal smell for one night in order to have a free place to sleep out of the wind and potential storm that was on the horizon, falling asleep to the screeches and swoops of hunting hawks and bats, the occasional cry of the unfortunate mouse, mosquitoes clamoring at the netting of our tents.

We hoped the storm wouldn't hit us – that would turn the roads to mud. Rain or not, though, we knew what was for breakfast: Abu Walad Sandwich Biscuits.