EAST AFRICA 2018 – Journal 14

I wanted to upload some photos, but the internet won’t cooperate. It may have to wait a few days. I will be back in Harberton on Tuesday next! That’ll take some adjustment… Anyway, here’s the penultimate episode for this safari.


The weather is frustrating all my plans. I realise that I should have learned from last year’s journey, that I should leave East Africa by the very start of March. But, of course, if I’d done that, I’d probably have ended up with cancelled flights and travel chaos in the European freeze. I can’t win. At least, as I just said to Adelight, I am happy to be stuck in Kitale, not some seedy hotel somewhere on the road. I am welcome here (a Scrabble partner for Adelight!) and the girls seem to fit round me quite comfortably. They all go back to school on Monday.

The rain cleared for a couple of hours in the middle of the day, enabling me to ride out to buy my air ticket from Kitale to Nairobi for the 12th and to order a couple of handmade shirts from Adelight’s shop.

Rico left this morning for Yemen, a two month contract with Medicine sans Frontieres, so even beer time is taken alone while the girls cook supper. A quiet, pretty unproductive day, but fun in this cheerful household.


…and the rain pours on down. I was planning to leave for Kessup today; it’s only a couple of hours away, but with the heavy rain, the journey held little attraction. Better to enjoy family life – the girls left back to their schools this afternoon – and play Scrabble with Adelight, whose appetite for the game is pretty insatiable. Pictures of the snowdrifts in the Harberton lanes probably show that I am in the better place though. But I am impatient being stationary! I never dealt well with sedentary occupation. I suggested to Adelight that if this weather continues all week, she’d better find me a job sewing on buttons in her tailoring shop!


For some reason that I haven’t found out, the room I customarily occupy at the Lelin Campsite at Kessup, is called ‘Mexico’. Some time before ten this morning, a dry but heavily overcast day that remained rainless until a short drizzly shower, by which time I was sitting with William in the shelter of a beer bar, I texted him: ‘Britain intends to invade Mexico later today’. It’s amused him so much through the rest of the day.

The day was mild and dull but my ride, on the tar roads I know rather well by now – and fairly boring they are too – was dry. I will be happy to get away from bad driving and speed humps, of which this road has plenty of examples of both. It’s only 75 miles to Kessup from Kitale, but little enlivens the route. Approaching the top of the Rift Valley escarpment, by which time I am quite high, the temperature drops, but I know that once past Iten and onto the downward road to Kessup’s plateau, 500 feet or so lower, the temperatures rise again. There’s little to see of the expansive view of the Kerio Valley today; the damp ground down there is making for thick haze in the warm air. All that is visible is the small glittering lake, now swollen with a number of attendant ponds and inlets, glinting and shining up through the mists like broken shards of a magic mirror. The rest of the valley is veiled in white mystery. It’s all very changed as the season turns.

I’ve been here so frequently now that I am welcomed back as a regular customer and soon after my arrival, loyal William is back to greet me, having heard my piki-piki pass his shamba. It’s so funny to see him in his proprietorial role: I am ‘William’s mzungu’ in Kessup, and he takes that responsibility so seriously, making sure my room is booked and prepared to my satisfaction, that my meals are ordered, that eggs will be available for breakfast and that the resort makes my stay as comfortable as he thinks suitable for his special white man. It’s very charming, his care and attention. He’s a man of considerable integrity, whose company I enjoy: a happy mutual situation. I see a frisson of irritation sometimes from the staff, but they know I am only here to visit my friend William, so they bite back their annoyance at his demands. It’s funny to watch.

Shortly after my arrival, having dropped my bags and changed, we walked down to the village below the resort to meet Rael, a woman I photographed last year. “Rael has been troubling me for a long time: ‘When will you bring your mzungu again? I want another photograph’.” Well, I am always content to photograph people, particularly so when they ask me. We wandered off down the footpaths of the Kessup plateau, everything now gaining a patina of gooey, greasy red mud: the paths, cars, floors, fences, clothes, the landscapes – and our shoes, slowly building up a slick of thick orangey Africa on the soles. It’s unsightly and grubby: rainy season Africa doesn’t look so fulsome and dazzling as it does under the equatorial sunshine.

We met various of William’s neighbours, jolly, warm-hearted people who welcome William’s mzungu cheerfully. It’s so pleasant to be a celebrity in this congenial region. I photographed Constantine, an older woman, washing numerous shoes in buckets on the path beside a babbling stream; for all the rivers, brooks and streams are running merrily now after the first heavy rains; the sound of running water everywhere. Constantine, middle aged, a widow since 2006, with three children, is bony and thin, suffering, William told me later, from HIV – as do so many East Africans. It’s just a fact of life here, and she is lucky to be alive, now that retrovirals, provided free by the government, as in Uganda, are saving so many lives once so quickly lost to the disease.

Rael was gathering a huge armful of washing from a wire fence and bushes by the path, anticipating the light shower that followed. We went to her simple, but homely house to take photos. A round-faced woman, she loved the photos I brought back, that William distributed before Christmas. I have made many friends here in Kessup with my portraits. William has proudly shown my photo book around too, creating a sort of legend around the mzungu who’s happy to mix in the villages and drink local bulsa (millet beer) with the people. William has been a great guide to his community: kindly, well liked, tactful and intelligent.

Rael’s is a tidy, small house of vertical wood planks, stained black, and topped by the usual zinc roof. A polished concrete floor and a living room lined in boarding covered by a stretched open-woven net fabric; it is decorated by political posters: ‘African presidents past and present’; ‘One country: One people’. A couple of cards wishing success in exams exhort her children to learn well and a few strings of Christmas tinsel hang across a corner, and there are simple, locally made wooden settees with foam cushions, and a couple of plywood coffee tables with curling blue-green painted tops. The living room is flanked by bedrooms: over one of the internal doors someone has scratched ‘girls’s bedroom’ in charcoal. There’s a many-doored sideboard, apparently largely empty of possessions with a sooty cooking cauldron sitting on top. The walls are painted neatly in cream and the doors and window frames to match the coffee tables. It’s a well cared for, comfortable small home with no frills whatsoever.

And then we repair to a beer bar, the Rock. Here we sit and converse comfortably for a couple of hours; William snapping his fingers that his white man will be served as he (William) thinks he deserves.

“I need soft food!” I told Joseph, the cheerful, rotund cook. He won’t be here much longer: he’s planning his own independent restaurant up the hill in Iten, where he lives. My teeth cause a lot of sympathy and a bit of humour. I might as well make the joke against myself, it gets me softer food! So tonight Joseph well chopped the chicken that he served as a sort of curry, with mashed potato and (bloody) fried cabbage. It’s cool now, eating round the small portable brazier under one of the thatched shelters. This is a different experience of Africa, without the sun and with light rain showers feeding the slippery underfoot mess as we slip and slither the narrow paths. But my welcome remains the same. ‘William’s mzungu’ is back for a couple of nights.


William likes to have a programme. You can tell he was a policeman – “Trained by British! British, they don’t like nonsense! They are STRAIGHT!” I wish I could subscribe to his total conviction about my countrymen and women: once upon a time maybe… I’m not so sure that the Britain I live in now, the mean-spirited Brexit, ‘populist’ Britain of the present, has much relation to the one he admires so unquestioningly.

“We have 26 minutes left! But there’s no hurry…” he contradicts himself in the beer bar as we sit beneath a thatch shelter out of a light rain after our half day of meeting and greeting. He often pulls out his mobile to check the time. He likes punctuality and a schedule.

And for me, I am too relaxed to bother much about clock time. I’m pretty content just to go as we please, for it’s the way I enjoy best to spend days in Africa, just wandering the paths, meeting the locals and taking their photos whenever I can. And today I captured another dozen people of rural Kessup on film; entered their houses; drank fibrous, grainy bulsa – local ‘beer’ from millet and maize – with them; studied their vegetable fields; investigated their kiosks; poked about their compounds; greeted their children and watched their animals. These were all William’s neighbours and compatriots, people amongst whom he has lived his life. They welcome ‘William’s mzungu’ warmly and suffer me to pry and ask questions, comment and investigate their lives.

The day was close and warm; the humidity high from the standing water, mud and threatening rain. But it remained dry until mid-afternoon once again, by which time we had shelter in our beer bar. Now, as I sit in bed after a huge supper (it’s 8.11 as I write that sentence!); supper of one of William’s cockerels, sacrificed as a present to me, the rain is pattering on the zinc roof of my room here above the expansive Kerio Valley, invisible in the darkness and humid haze. I hope so much that the rain comes only in the night, for my last few days of riding are upon me now; maybe two or three more excursions – and then it can (and probably will) rain as much as it likes…

It’s restful here in Kessup. Once again, I am the only guest here, so the staff come and chat with William and I, and the waitress finishes off our supper dishes. It’s an odd set up, not very well managed; certainly not to William’s exacting standards of what is suitable for his own white man and second best friend (after his daughter studying in Australia) but I like my room, ‘Mexico’, and sleep long and satisfyingly in the silence and comfortable bed – almost another ten hours last night. It’s deeply silent now and warm in bed, having taken supper huddled over a brazier in a draughty shelter, for with the rain the temperature has plunged. Looks like an 8.30 bedtime again.


Sitting on the embankment above the bulsa maker’s house, I was smiling down at her, in her terrace yard. “Eh, Mzungu, you have a nice smile!” she called up.

Yeah, lady, little do you know, I can remove most of it with my fingers… You have to laugh at this adversity. Well, I do.


A glorious day, after the rains, and a lovely ride. There was that delicious scent of a washed spring day, the rains having rinsed away the dust; the equatorial sun beaming down and the temperature having lost the relentless, oppressive intensity of the past weeks. The rains have released all manner of subtle aromas: sensations that few car drivers can ever enjoy.

Leaving William around ten, I rode slowly down into the Kerio Valley, now one of my favourite Kenyan landscapes: the long slow curves and sweeping bends that descend with vast views into the depths of the Rift Valley. The views soften and fade into unlimited distance with the haze created by the recent rains slowly evaporating into gentle mists, the sun bright but softened now.

My road dropped deep into the valley, passing the end of the dirt roads that would have led me back across the valley floor and up onto my favourite road, twisting and climbing back up to Kaptagat: the road I enjoyed so much twice on this trip. But it’s of dust and dirt, rock and rut, and probably now of mud and slipperiness. Tempted but wise now, I rode on across the valley floor and onto the curls back up to Kabarnet on the other rim. Kabarnet is one of Kenya’s uglier towns, not a place to linger, but followed by one of the loveliest roads, a slow meander through the hills via the village of Sacho, on a road that last year was still unfinished and dusty, but now smooth and delightful, the road following ridges sometimes little more than fifty yards wide, that drop away into the wooded and cultivated steep valleys on either side, people waving and greeting as I ride. Today I went through a multitude of landscapes: the heights of the Kessup plateau under its great tree-hung wall; down the slopes to the dry valley floor; back up to the forests on the other side; down again to the dry valley floor with acacia and aloes, rock and semi-desert; through commercial forests with big sawmills, ruts and severe potholes; the brief punishment on the main East African Highway that I have striven so hard to avoid for three months – but was unavoidable for fifteen kilometres, where petrol tankers drive like racing cars and the road has perhaps the worst accident statistics in Africa. It’s a place where dozens regularly die in ghastly multiple vehicle accidents. It’s a road completely inadequate for the traffic that uses it, on which drivers take the most horrifying risks, with overtaking that must be seen to be believed.

Finally, onto a road once again unaccountably outlined on my map in green as a road of beauty – that is far from exceptional, except for the final 15 kilometres, when the road passes fine tea estates and distant rolling hills. I wonder who decided on the green outlines on my map? I could show them some real beauties not far away.


My reason for the journey was a promise I had made to Nashon, the mechanic who saved my Mosquito last year when teeth stripped from cogs in the starter mechanism. A throughly decent man, quiet and shyly unassuming, he proved to be an excellent mechanic and a man of integrity, stripping my engine to its component parts and swiftly and efficiently rebuilding it over a couple of days; stressful days for me until I understood that Nashon wasn’t a boda-boda butcher, but a knowledgable man. He’s emailed me a few times to find out how my journey was going, and to tell me that he has contacts who could supply the parts I need to get the bike back to full spec. We have decided that it’s a project for the start of my next safari in East Africa, whenever that will be. I seem to have committed myself to some sort of visit later in the year, with promises to Adelight, William, Alex – and now Nashon… This journey has been different from many: it has been about revisiting newly made friends, and of course, old and valued ones in Rico and family. I have a lot of respect for and liking of Kenyan people; they are respectful and warm-hearted, polite and friendly. Education levels are generally reasonably high and people cosmopolitan and welcoming to strangers. Travelling here is easy and congenial.

Nashon took me to his nearby home. He lives in a communal rooming house: two parallel rows of individual rooms – about twelve foot square is the norm: a sheet and a half of most construction materials – with shared latrines and showers. Through economic necessity, cultural habit and gregariousness, the majority of urban Africans live thus. All possessions are kept in that room: the bed screened by a curtain, the rest – the TV, a wood-framed settee, clothes, cooking pots, water containers and so forth fill the room. Socialising, cooking and food preparation are, of course, mainly done out of doors in Africa. There’s none if the obsessive search for privacy that typifies European life; just as well, really, for everyone lives in such close proximity. I often find myself trying to explain how different life is when the climate forces you to spend most of the time indoors.

A mzungu at home excites a deal of interest! Many small children came to politely shake my hand and inspect the white visitor. Nashon’s two children, a tall young girl and her junior brother watched or went about their after school business as we chatted, his wife kindly bringing us tea and bread. The sentimental Victorian version of Jesus, pale and wan with all the racial prejudice of the time, gazed at us from several religious posters and bass beats reverberated from the nearby busy market streets. Nashon lives a hundred yards from his oily workshop, right in the heart of bustling Brooke. He’s a throughly decent man, and one I trust to care for my Mosquito.


For a few kilometres in the late morning I had the unpleasant experience of riding through a cloud of flying termites. They have a very brief chance of forming new colonies around a new queen, for their wings fall off after a few hours and the vast majority of these insects – even the ones that don’t squash into a sort of scattered omelette on my goggles, helmet, beard and jacket – will die very soon if they form no new colony. Another of nature’s odd quirks.


Apart from the unpleasant few miles on the dangerous highway, this was a gentle, enjoyable day, riding calmly along at 30 and 40 miles an hour in light traffic and lovely, varied scenery, although I have travelled all these roads before. Now I am back at the Brooke Hotel (Brooke Bond country) across the very busy, incredibly noisy main road from carpets of tea that stretch to hilly horizons. Unfortunately, this hotel – sufficient for my needs – is beside this road that carries vast quantities of goods to Lake Victoria, the big city of Kisumu, Uganda and beyond. Right outside are speed humps that cause gigantic pantechnicons and container wagons to apply air brakes and bounce their trailers noisily over the humps. This time, I have taken a room further from the road. With the window shut, it may be almost bearable. If I come here for Nashon to put new piston rings and new parts for my starter and brakes next safari, I shall try other options for sleeping – places further from this road. But it’s reasonably priced here and easy to find. For a night, it’ll do. For any more, I will look further.


It has not rained all day. If my last couple of rides are as good as today, I will end my trip on a contented note…


It’s probably unwise to look at the kitchen before eating in Africa. Oh well, I’ll see what arrives for my supper. It was the Kaptagat Hotel that never got an order correct. The kitchen is a large shed-like place of empty cupboards, empty surfaces and stained walls, with grubby broken windows – a kitchen built for colonial banquets, now reduced to cooking the only guest’s supper; the one with the dicky teeth. Well, cooking food over charcoal is a hot business and kills most things efficiently. I was only thinking today, that I have been travelling for almost four months, eating and drinking anything, including local water (about two small bottles of rip-off, one use plastic water so far!), street food, poorly washed utensils and all the rest, and I have remained totally healthy. It’s a question of immunity as much as anything else; another reason to resent the ridiculous phenomenon of ‘pure’ drinking water sold in pollution bottles. The more you drink of that stuff, the less immune you get, and the more of that ‘pure water’ poison you have to buy from utterly unscrupulous corporations. So damned cynically clever! Apart from my bloody teeth, and the muscle in my neck that has been troubling me for weeks, I am in disgustingly good health.

This has been another glorious day. I awoke to a completely cloudless sky. When you have been fearing rain for your journey, the sunshine is like an extra gift. And this is such mellow, benign sunshine after the past weeks. It’s sinking just a little lower in the northern skies now from its overhead harshness and gives a softer light already.

After goodbying Nashon, (who kindly gave me a whole kilo of local tea), I rode off in the general direction of Lake Victoria, gratefully turning off the main road after twenty kilometres or so onto the small roads that wind and curl up into the Nandi Hills, where I rode in January, crossing the Equator yet again, tipping back into the Northern Hemisphere until I fly down to Nairobi on Monday. I had promised William that if I passed through the busy hill town of Kapsabet, I would seek out his son, Collins, to say hello. Narrow faced and thin, unmistakably like his father, he runs his own small business that seems to be selling films or downloads from a small shop in the town centre.

Soon I was off onto a smaller road that slowly clambered up even higher into the Highlands. Here thick coniferous forests began to line the road for a while, reminding me of the Scottish highlands – except for overloaded matatus and grinding ancient lorries belching black clouds of diesel into the wide skies. Hills rolled away to the south and I passed through many firewood and rusty zinc villages, grateful that I don’t have to spend my life condemned to such drabness.

I’d planned a route that would involve only five miles of the hideous Highway that I can’t avoid when I need to cross from the south to the north, for it bisects the country. Sometimes, however, I suspect that the drafters of my map just guessed, for I never saw the road to the right that would bring me to Kaptagat in little more than 25 kilometres. Maybe the fault is mine, for I assume that a road printed importantly in yellow will be a decent road between towns, not a dirt track that anonymously leaves the horrible flying highway. Perhaps that’s what this ‘main road’ was. As it was, ten kilometres further on, I found another rocky earth track, that a week ago would have been thick with dust, that boda-boda boys told me would bring me to Kaptagat – “eventually”, they didn’t add. Where I went, I am not sure, even now, but it wasn’t where I thought I was… It did bring me to Kaptagat – eventually – but by a devious route, past a halt on the old colonial East African Railway called Plateau, on an appalling road in the process of being built: the worst condition for riding as you have to deviate onto vaguely flattened, rutted edges of fields for mile upon mile. But the sun shone down from a cottonwool sky and if all wasn’t right with the world, it wasn’t very bad.

And now, here I am in my funny old colonial hotel room again, with a huge log fire spitting and crackling in the grate. I’m using it to dry washing just now as the evening is ironically so much warmer than those of mid-January. It’s fun, though, to have a flickering cedar wood fire in the heights of equatorial Africa!


It’s so sad that the bar in this hotel fills up in the evening with country men committing slow suicide with ‘KK’ (Kenya Kane spirit). Like unregulated local ‘wirigi’, it is a violently strong spirit, much cheaper than beer, that kills millions of Africans, the majority of whom (I don’t think that’s such an exaggeration, with men at least) have an alcohol problem. Little investigation is made into most causes of death on this continent, but I’d warrant that a significant number are from sclerosis and related disease, not to mention alcohol related accident.”Yes, they come here to get drunk,” says Ellen, watching as three men appear to spar off, poking chests and arguing loudly, their wives and numerous children at home eating poor food and probably fearing their return. “And they are young men,” says Mike Egan, a young, very athletic professional runner who trains up here at Kaptagat. “But look at them and you think they are forty. They can work all day to make money to drink; and finish the money!” Remove all alcohol and put the women in charge, and this continent would change overnight, and might actually begin to work…

Mike is one of the many runners who train at Kaptagat and Iten, in ‘the home of champions’ as the road signs say, thanks to its many running and athletic successes, with the advantage of its altitude. Mike now has Turkish nationality having lived in England for eight years. He now runs marathons for his adopted country. I think the delightful Sir Mo has trained up here also.


The Mosquito has to be bump started from cold every time now. I was reminded by one of the hotel boys that it began here in Kaptagat; I thought it was just the cold mornings then, but now I realise the problem was beginning. Nashon reckons it is the piston rings, for the exhaust is black and I am having to add 100mls or so of oil in the mornings. We’ve sort of agreed that he will replace the rings, timing chain, kick start seal, oil filter, brake shoes, brake pads, and probably the two damaged starter cogs when I next come back.

Effectively, this is the last night on the road for the early months of 2018. Tomorrow I plan to ride gently back to Kitale (‘home’) for my final weekend. This has been a less ‘linear’ trip than most, focussing instead on visiting acquaintances and seeing places in more depth after last year’s introductory ride. At this stage, I begin to fear being at home, amongst things familiar, without the stimulation of fairly constant novelty, and without being a celebrity – as any mzungu finds himself here. In other ways, it’s time to stop moving (briefly: because I have summer plans already) and be part of my own community for a while to reestablish the balance.


Supper was actually rather good. Well chopped chicken in a thick stew, with rice and some small spinach. I went round and tipped the cook. He deserves encouragement!


The circle complete; the journey just about done. I am back at base in Kitale after another sunny day – just descending into a light shower at 5.30 as I wait for the big hand to reach the top of the clock for Beer O’clock. It was a gentle ride today: no rush, as I was only riding 120 kilometres or so back to Kitale. Once again my map defied my expectations; maybe this was a road built since it was drafted? It was certainly a new road; the signposts differing by as much as five kilometres from the distance markers at the edge of the new black tarmac. I thought I was going back to Iten, the town above Kessup on the rim of the great Kerio Valley. Somehow I arrived in hateful Eldoret, twenty-odd miles away, my least favourite Kenyan city, where I had to negotiate a short stretch of the horrible East African Highway again. Here all the traffic: the petrol tankers, the container wagons, the articulated trucks, the antique lorries, the thousands of matatus, the racing private cars – and several thousand wriggling boda-bodas – all push their way through Eldoret’s High Street, a single carriageway lined with shops and businesses, blocked by wares, slowed by deliveries, filled with diesel fumes and thronged with pedestrians, many of whom want to be on the other side of the road at any time. It is hideous and ghastly; a place to avoid at all costs – but I found myself joining the bedlam until I could turn north again and continue on the somewhat longer but rather more relaxing country route.


So, back for the final weekend of my journey. I fly down to Nairobi on Monday at noon, and out to Amsterdam at midnight. There’ll be time to take stock on the eight hour flight, but never enough time to adapt to the new experience of being home, being still and being just back to familiar things. Sometimes I love it, but I know too that I get bored very soon and will be searching for activity and direction within hours! It’s just the way I am…

Coming home can be as challenging as starting a new journey in unknown lands.

Oh well, I have all that dental work to look forward to! I expect that’ll cost just about as much as spending a winter in Africa too.

In case you don’t get to read the last three days, it’s interesting to note that the entire trip has cost me about: £680 for the Ghana section, £2850 for the East African section and £1110 in air fares. I reckon that living at home costs almost the same, if you take off the air fares. About £31 a day, and that includes my accommodation, subsistence, transport costs and all incidentals, including quite a sum given away. They used to say that winter on the Costa del Sol was cheaper than staying home in Britain. In my opinion, Africa’s a good deal more rewarding than the Costa del Sol – although it’s difficult to get Sky TV and the tabloids.


I’ve been thinking a lot about my future travels these past days. It may be that I get an Ethiopian visa in November, fly out and get the bike fixed, stay with Rico and family a bit, see Alex and William, ride to Ethiopia for a few weeks, and then fly somewhere completely different. I’ve spent six winters in Africa and maybe I should take a trip somewhere else – the Antipodes for a short time, maybe? But I have come to enjoy the Mosquito (with Rico’s replacement seat) after initially despising it as too small and too slow. I see now that it is an ideal touring bike in some ways: lightweight, versatile enough that I can take it anywhere with confidence for I know I can lift it and pick it up manually if absolutely required. It’s astonishingly economical at 93mpg; simply engineered and reliable and adaptable, with parts easily available in much of Africa. I don’t NEED speed, for I am here to observe and enjoy. How can anyone ride a BMW 1200 here, with its bulk, extreme weight and complexity? I would like to investigate just how I would deal with customs if I were to ride from here down to South Africa with the Mosquito, either leaving it there for a year or repatriating it by flying it back up – it’s light enough to do that.

Well, plenty of time to think it over and decide on my septuagenarian safaris! ‘Who knows tomorrow?’ Is a well worn West African phrase. Who, indeed?






EAST AFRICA 2018 – Journal thirteen


My usually infallible bump of direction gets so confused down here, just about on the Equator. Is the sun north of me here, or south at midday? I know it still rises in the east and sets in the west, but shortly after the equinox, just where is it? It must be going north by now? Changing hemispheres, everything is turned on its head for one so accustomed to the clear angles of fifty degrees north or so.

Thus it was that I took a wrong turn out of Jinja and added fifty somewhat frustrating miles to my ride today. I thought I was riding east: I was riding north. It took me 120 kilometres to reach Iganga, 38 kilometres east of Jinja, a narrow triangular route.

Stopping at a petrol station, when I finally realised I was on completely the wrong road, I asked a fellow in a car (always ask another driver about roads in Africa). “How can I get back to Iganga? How are the roads?”

“They are good. Murram…. If you want tar, you must return to Jinja; but if you don’t mind a little adventure, you can go back a kilometre, turn to the left and go by Bulopa.”

Well, what was I to do? The glove was down. The earth road to Iganga was actually in good condition, recently graded and almost as quick as the tar road, if you take into account the multitude of speed humps on the tar. I bowled along for another 60 kilometres, only a little over an hour, getting tied up in a damned cycle race, dangerously mixed with screaming supporters on boda-bodas, all enveloped in a vast cloud of fine dust; dust that certainly won’t have done any good for the straining cyclists, and dust that fills the eyes and lungs for future problems for the millions of Ugandan boda-boda riders (not to mention the dwellers beside dust roads), almost none of whom take precautions against dust or any other hazard. Respiratory and eye diseases are a time bomb for Uganda’s future – in a country with little medical provision and largely private health care, but maybe the average Ugandan doesn’t live long enough to reach that stage on life… Gosh, life in Africa makes you think.


The Mosquito seems to be adapting well to its electronic transplants (better than I am with my bionic teeth) and runs along well now without the palpitations of last week. It’s given pretty well trouble free service on this safari, now going towards five thousand miles. I’ve come to quite respect this machine, so small it seemed at first, but which has revealed itself to be an ideal touring companion: lightweight, manoeuvrable, not uncomfortable since Rico found the wide seat, and extremely economical at 80 or 90mpg.

My transplants don’t work quite so well! “Oh, I don’t want to see..!” exclaims delightful Precious, turning away but secretly fascinated, as I removed the plate to eat my supper – for it clatters and grinds if I don’t. With most of my smile now in my hand, she screeched, “NO! Don’t laugh! I won’t look!” She’s never seen such a thing before: in Uganda if you get old enough to lose your teeth – which few do – no one attempts restorative dentistry to maintain their vanity. It’s just a fact of life, and a mark of respect that you attained the grand age of the 2% of over 65s. One old lady here in Sipi, last week reached 102, an age that is talked about far and wide, born in 1916. Imagine the changes she has seen in African ways of life, although Alex says her memory is a bit faulty and slightly confused; but she enjoys the respect of Sipi, nonetheless.

Back on my road at last, I had spent an extra hour and a half on my journey. The weather is changing now as the rainy season approaches; the meteorologists forecasting an early wet season this year, so it is beginning to tell already. By afternoon, the last few days, I have watched dark clouds form; as yet in isolated thunderstorms that pour the contents of their heavily saturated clouds in dramatic outbursts, that are short and localised. One such formed ahead of me as I rode, so I took shelter under the zinc canopy of a small guest house at the roadside, riding right onto the terrace and waiting out three quarters of an hour under the noisy roof with three young women, hardly out of school, one nursing a baby, and a fellow folding sheets. Boys along the road stripped to their underpants and ran in and out of the quickly forming deep puddles at the pitted roadside, leaping and screeching with glee at their improvised swimming pool. Small pleasures provide so much diversion for African children: no need for the ubiquitous ‘devices’ and materialism of our ‘sophisticated’ children: a muddy puddle; an empty oil container on small wheels, steered by a stick; an old motorcycle tyre rolled along as a hoop; a cardboard box or empty cans, mud to sculpt, a stick to wave and slash: these are all you need, and anyway, you have duties to watch over the family cattle by the roadside, to carry loads – and hopefully, attend school, even if only for a few years. The vast majority here are basically literate and most speak English to some extent at least, even in rural communities

The roads never leave habitation in this intensely populated land. I seldom see anything resembling countryside, unless maintained as a natural area by government decree. Every acre, even be it at 45 degrees to level, must be put to account in a land with 50% of its inhabitants under fifteen years, and growing at such an alarming rate. Being Sunday, many were dressed for church, the matrons sporting what must be the fashion: the shiniest, most vibrant fabrics swathed from neck to sandals, with two curious volcanoes of fabric sitting on their shoulders like a visual shrug. It’s a fashion so obvious that it will date very hastily, but it makes work for the numerous seamstresses and tailors, and makes the scant money go round.


I paused while it was still so hot for chai (African tea), that turned out when it came to be local black coffee, weak and insipid, mixed directly in the flask. It was lunchtime, and the simple, somewhat grubby ‘hotel’ was serving up gigantic quantities of carbohydrate, supplemented with a few bits of goaty gristle: starchy rice, mashed matoke (savoury local bananas), red kidney beans and potatoes. Cooking is done in huge cauldrons, balanced over sticks and charcoal on a few rocks in a corner. Most work takes place on the floor, the cooking women bending supply from the waist. Service is at the omnipresent Chinese plastic chairs and tables on plastic plates and cups. These are washed in cold water and soap powder, recycling hastily from a small supply. Wiped with a greasy scrap of old towelling, they are refilled in moments, the giant piles of food slopped unceremoniously with wooden spatulas straight from the cauldrons. It’s all a bit unseemly to me, but fingers are soon dipping and dripping into the food. Quantities are prodigious, but nutrition probably poor. No one can comprehend that I don’t want to partake: all I want is some tea – or coffee, as chance elects.

At such times I often think of my old friend, Kim from Norway, one of MY travel mentors, now about 83 I guess, whom I met so long ago in Bolivia when I was green. We’ve always remained good friends. She taught me to drink from cups with my left hand when in doubt of hygiene, for most of the world drinks with the right hand, from that side of the cup!


With pauses to shelter, extensive detours thanks to my confused bump of direction, and a horrible 25 kilometres of heavily pot-holed and part-rebuilt road, it was almost five before I reached Sipi and a blustering, extravagant welcome from Precious, Alex still at work at his hotel in town ten miles away. It was eight before he came home, and sat on my bed (there really IS very little furniture here!) to talk and share my chicken, matoke, tomato salad and rice supper.

“We are building! The first room – it’s called Jonathan’s House – is almost finished already. I am determined. All I needed was the help to start! Precious will show you tomorrow; we will soon start to decorate it. Oh, yes! It will be ‘self-contained’ (en-suite)! The provision is already there. I just have to get the blocks for the bed, and finding the grass has been difficult. But we are working hard. I am determined! We thank you so much for your help, Jonathan. It was all we needed. We will use the help wisely.” And I know they will; a push was all they needed. I realised that as soon as Alex told me that the remaining Ugandan money I left him last year as I rode away back to Kenya (£34) had been invested in seed potatoes: thinking for the future, a choice that paid off so well for him in a year with bad harvests; a year in which those ‘Irish’ supported his family and neighbours and prevented hunger. It’s so unusual to meet Africans who plan ahead; the problem of this continent.

I have given Alex and Precious £200 in much needed start-up capital in the past four weeks. From this I am convinced he will build up a business, using his and Precious’s imagination and drive. He already has begun on the second round house. They will be on his own property along the track from this cliff-edge site, so short-sightedly and jealously argued over by his co-owners. If they but saw how they could help him to turn this site into a small goldmine, he could be flying by now but, not planning for the future, his co-owners, living in Canada and distrustful and greedy, want their return instantly, unable to understand the ‘speculate to accumulate’ law of capitalism. So he will develop a pleasant ‘resort’ but without this spectacular view. He is proud to tell me that he already has the first two bookings! Not until October, he laughs, but the support of the people to whom he showed his nascent resort has been encouraging. Next time I come to Sipi – for I am sure I will sometime visit Alex and Precious again – I will stay in Jonathan’s House.


For now, I am in the broken-down thatched room, with a gentle spray of rainwater coming through the roof, for a violent thunderstorm with exciting mauve sheet lightning, sprays a light show across the rain-washed view of the enormous plain below my doorstep. The wind is loud, the night wild – but it will be brief and dramatic, as is all weather on this extreme continent. I will sleep very soundly here in Sipi, once again with my welcoming young friends.


Soundly indeed I slept – for ten hours. I rather look forward to coming to Sipi, because it is so conducive to sleep. It’s a bit like sleeping in a tent – only a good deal more comfortable: fresh mountain air, silence and warmth.

This was a quiet, calm day. Against Precious’s ideas of hospitality, I insisted on walking by myself down into the valley below to visit Michael, who was working here as askari on my last visit, and his wife Rose, the delightful, ebullient character who cannot talk, but communicates so extravagantly with her expressive face. They live on their shamba two or three hundred feet below our high bluff. The walk involves clambering down a rough ladder, some forty feet high, to negotiate a part of the rock faces that circle the valley below. As I approached the top of the ladder, I heard voices below and, looking down saw a young couple beginning to climb. Lilly, a pretty girl, was climbing completely unselfconsciously bare breasted, followed by Shafiq, her husband or boyfriend. Seeing my camera, they asked for a photo, never a problem for me, but I was a little disappointed when Shafiq suggested that comely Lilly should replace her tee shirt! Down the mountainside I was warmly welcomed by the lovely Rose, so expressive despite her inarticulate noises; a delightful woman.


Poor Alex is being frozen out of his part-inheritance here at Coffeeland Resort by his jealous relatives. A young man has come to stay, representing the members of the family who claim ownership, despite the late owner, a great uncle of Alex, willing him partial rights to the place. With my somewhat rosy views of African life I often don’t see the family jealousies that are unpleasantly common. The man who is staying here now, is here to survey the resort and cost the improvements required from the family. This afternoon as he was discussing water connection with an official, Alex’s name was not mentioned in association with ownership, and he has had no negotiation about potential management.

But Alex, with my seed money, is striking out on his own. In the afternoon, Precious and I walked to their own plot, on which they have built their own mud and stick house – and are now constructing the two first bandas of their own resort. They have big plans: a new kitchen is being constructed; the earth has been dug from an embankment to build the bar; there are plans for a raised drinking terrace, car parking, and gardens. I am impressed: this is ambition. Good for them, and good luck. I feel they will prosper. I also predict that the restoration of the cliff top resort will be ill-planned, badly executed and badly managed, and will result in little good for the greedy family, for they don’t understand what visitors want: a warm welcome, imagination and congenial surroundings. I doubt they will achieve any of that without Alex and Precious.


As the sun sank in the sky, a smart 13 year old neighbour, Sam, took me on a walk; at three times the speed of Precious, it must be said. We walked along the precipitous edge of the cliffs around the top of the great amphitheatre and watched a fine sunset from the edge of the rim above one of the now dry falls for which Sipi is famous. Sam was bright and sharp; a good guide. Sitting on the rocky heights beside the yawning drop another boy sat, whittling at a length of eucalyptus with nothing more than the customary machete that every man and boy carries in rural Africa. “What are you making?” I asked. “A gun!” he laughed shyly, showing me his work. The valley constantly hums to the sound of chain saws from below, where men cut fast-growing eucalyptus. Straight and supple, they form the basic building material for all the local houses, fences and structures and bring in about £5 a tree for their owners.

Walking back, now in virtual darkness, for the light fades quickly here on the Equator, we were trailed by a parade of small people, chorusing their, “Hello! How are youuuuu?” One small boy slipped his hand into mine, rubbing his other hand up and down my hairy arm in fascination. I was glad of his small steadying presence as I am always almost blind in the dark, unlike Africans, used to it, who can run and jump if required.


The weather is changing fast. It’s time to leave; motorbike travels in the rain lose their attraction. And with the rain, the temperature drops too. In the afternoon I witnessed a dramatic rain storm: it cascaded down as if thrown from buckets, and then hailstones the size of peas machine-gunned on the tin roof. In moments all was mud and runnels of rushing water. Just before it happened I was outside in Kapchorwa, the town ten miles up the hill; for we are in the foothills of Mount Elgon, one of Africa’s highest. As I watched, a most extraordinary phenomenon occurred: clouds, boiling and spinning, coiling and billowing, and travelling fast at ground level, enveloped buildings around me, blanketing out the view even a hundred yards distant, a very strange thing to watch in an urban environment.

Alex and I had gone to Kapchorwa to attend a meeting of his volunteer group; the one that dealt with encouraging less births until the vile trump (I never grace him with a capital T) cut the funding because he ‘had more pressing needs for the money at home’ – like giving tax breaks to the disgustingly wealthy, I suppose, now that the richest 8 people in the world, of whom six are American, obscenely, have wealth equal to the poorer 3.6 billion HALF of the world population (2016). Now, fortunately, the Dutch have stepped in and the same volunteer leaders are focusing on trying to discourage gender based violence – although how they hope to have much effect in this male dominated society that knows no social control, I wonder. But these men are doing their best to bring a little enlightenment to their poorly educated, rural communities, some of them through music and drama, some through regular social sessions with the older men of the villages, some by gathering groups of youth, and one by trying to influence the 1000 boda-boda riders of Kapchorwa town and district. 1000..! They are well meaning men in a project coordinated by three women, it seemed. Consulate, the facilitator of the project, I met last year, and so I was invited into the meeting once again. Alex said later that my presence had certainly livened up the session. For we began with lots of questions to the mzungu: most of them about family size and inheritance in England. Needless to say, I astonished them with some of my views about the viability of this poor planet being so vastly over-populated, to the extent that their grandchildren will look upon this profligate age with anger, when they are even more in poverty than at present, for resources in these countries remain the same or reduce. I argued with them about the ridiculous vanity they showed in fathering so many children. “I predict that your great grandchildren will be fighting wars over water. Water is finite on this planet. So is land.”

“Oh, but we will pray to god for more,” said one man, in all seriousness. What answer is there to such blindness? One of the others, slightly more sensible, and more persuaded by science than by the many centuries old morality myths of the Quran and Bible, commented, “We are already fighting wars over water…” and mentioned some locality where violence was rife over water rights.

Then someone laughed and introduced me to one of the two Moslems, from a backward rural area down the hills. “Tell Jonathan how many children you have!”

“Twenty six. With four wives!” he told me, with evident pride.


“Because the Quran tells me, and because I want my children and their children to remember me.”

“How can you meaningfully educate 26 children, and keep them healthy? It’s not possible. I guarantee you WILL be remembered, but for your greed and irresponsibility and for condemning your great grandchildren to even worse poverty than exists in Africa now. Uganda is said to be the fastest expanding population on earth, but the land stays the same size, with the same resources. Surely you can see the link between we in the West having an average of two children and being rich countries with high education and average life expectancy of 78 or 80, and your poverty, hard graft and dying at 57? Two percent of your nation reach my age – and I am still riding a piki-piki round Africa!”

But the argument is all about land and inheritance. They just could not comprehend that my wealth will be shared amongst friends, willed away quite thoughtfully to those it will benefit. In Africa, ownership of land is all important, and male inheritance the only acceptable form of lineage. My arguments fell on largely deaf and non-comprehending ears, except for a couple of educated younger men (Alex and Robert), who want only one or two children, that they can care for adequately and without stress. I might as well have saved my breath. “But it livened up our meeting!” said Alex on the way home.


When the torrents stopped, Alex and I went to the Kapchorwa market to buy food for our supper. The market in Kapchorwa is a mean affair of scrappy wooden shacks along a couple of earth lanes. Now it was unsightly with thick mud and all the wares looked accordingly dingy: plastic shoes covered over by sheets of dirty plastic; derelict second hand clothes gathered hastily from the wires looped along walls, now being rehung on bent wire coat hangers; earthy sacks of ‘Irish’ and cabbages; small piles of tomatoes, bunches of small purple onions, luscious avocados and bundles of green vegetables – all laid out under the dripping roofs of the squalid stalls, women traders lying amongst their wares on the tables, babies and small children everywhere. Amongst all this we slithered and slid in greasy mud, filling another African black plastic bag with our supper, later cooked by Alex at home at his new house, for he is backing away from the Coffeeland resort and concentrating on his own project now that the family member is here to plan new concrete pavilions utterly unsuitable to the site and cottages that will be mismanaged – if they ever transpire. It’s only jealousy that has prompted this sudden interest by the family members blocking Alex’s part ownership: one of them heard that a rich mzungu had come to Coffeeland and Alex was getting rich! That’s me – paying £4 to sleep in a tumbledown, slightly leaky hut. The more I find of family relationships in several parts of Africa, the more envy I witness: it seems people do not celebrate the success or good luck of their children or siblings but fight them for a cut of the perceived profit. Alex’s own father is angry about his son trying to launch out and develop his own business, whereas you’d think he would be giving every encouragement. The family now thinks that Alex has a ‘rich white man’ (me with a gift of £200) and wants part of that deal too. And yet, all the talk in this afternoon’s meeting was of family love, closeness to siblings and the support of neighbours. It seems to me that here is a great romanticised theory, but reality often differs.


Sometimes (and rain and chill don’t help!) I think I have seen enough of Africa. The insoluble problems weigh me down, when I hear of the the social ills these volunteers try to eradicate or at least reduce: idleness, drug abuse, alcoholism, rampant rape – and I mean rampant: even fathers with their own daughters – teenage pregnancy, non-consensual sex, murder within the family (usually about inheritance), jealousies and greed. Why can no one see that all these are directly connected with over-population and an average of almost eight children per poor, struggling, early-dying woman? My view of the surface is often so rosily specced, my knowledge slight of social and traditional mores. When I glimpse below the surface at the roiling emotions, it depresses me. This, with my extremely pessimistic predictions for mankind’s ability to sustain life on this planet beyond the next few centuries, makes my thoughts gloomy as I ride, for having seen and begun to understand this mess that is Africa, I can’t just put my head back in the sand. The friendly, outgoing, cheerful surface that I often see as a visitor is just that: the cheerful surface with which everyone greets a stranger. No, now the rain’s coming and I am seeing the seamy side, it’s time to go back and enjoy the fact that my birthright is so much more comfortable.


Riding with Alex on the carrier, we passed a large group of boda-boda boys – every group is large at every junction or destination; well, it would be, with a thousand members of the local boda-boda organisation alone – as we passed, Alex started to laugh and translated their calls. “Hey, if mzungus start to ride boda-boda, where will we get customers?!”


It’s a two-blanket night in my hut. The temperature plunges with the rain. Usually I sleep with no more than a sheet. I hope the roof doesn’t leak on my bed. Precious and Alex are so sad that I could not stay in the first of their bandas by now. They await the next visit for that. They are charming young people.


Back ‘home’: “You are more one of the family now, than a friend! You are welcome any time!” says Adelight. Happily, all the girls are home for half term holiday, so we are a cheerful, full household.

Thanks to the rain, I decided to take the longer route back to Kitale on the tarred roads. The broken road through Suam would be just about impassible now; all that thick dust turned to clogging mud; the hard earth turned to greasy slipperiness; the rocks washed downwards. There will be abandoned vehicles stuck in the mess, churning up the filth as they are extricated. Better to go lamely round on the tarred roads, twice as far. The day remained sunny until 23 kilometres short of Kitale, when a violent thunderstorm, that I had watched gathering as densely slaty skies and dramatic clouds shapes, deluged its weight in forty minutes while I sheltered with some boda-boda boys, in their flip-flops and tee shirts, beneath a tin awning in front of some shops in a small, mud-swilled village. Water cascaded from the noisy, rusty zinc, splashing into the rivers of mud below. The temperature plunges and the boda-boda boys shivered as I pulled on waterproofs. Soon, in the succeeding drizzle, they were back out looking for customers; the customers themselves in shirtsleeves huddling behind the riders in spray and wet. It’s hard when the rains come.

The Malaba border is one that carries most of the commercial traffic between the coast and the interior countries, horrendous lines of trucks and tankers jockeying to pass the rutted, broken, narrow bridge that allows single file traffic. Fortunately, with my motorbike, I could weave my way through and accomplish my business – arcane though it appeared to be – at different windows. No one seemed quite sure what to do with my papers, and I still have the Ugandan customs document that should have been collected in Uganda. “Well, sorry, but I’m not going back! It’s their mistake, and so far as I am concerned, you’ve stamped my piki-piki back into Kenya and that’s all that I am bothered about!” All I wanted was to get out of the chaos. I rode away.

I’m glad to get away from Ugandan driving, the worst in Africa that I know. It’s interesting to see how much better is the infrastructure on the Kenyan side of the border. It’s cleaner, less densely populated and things just seem to work better. This country hasn’t the incredible population surge of Uganda (still a high birthrate, but not in the extremes of their neighbour), with the consequent pressure on resources and services. The ban on plastic bags has had perceptible influence – although a Ugandan told me that Kenya makes all their plastic bags; the ones that billow and litter the landscape, pollute the fields and strangle the animals of Uganda.


“Just as well you didn’t go to Ethiopia!” Rico greets me. “It’s in chaos; a state of emergency. The government has resigned. You’d have had trouble moving about, or been thrown out!” I can’t find details, but he gets the East African news here in Kitale; news that hardly registers on our Western- centric media. Still, it’d have been interesting to see for myself, but it would have made a lot of problems I suppose. With no government, the rest of the system will collapse quickly into a shambles…


The rains have arrived. But, says Rico, “It might rain like this today, and not rain again for a fortnight.” But this feels like the start of the rainy season. A violent rainstorm, with attendant thunder, left a long, drizzly rain all evening. The ground needs it of course; it’s only me that doesn’t welcome the new season. Africa quickly turns to red mud and becomes unsightly – and little fun to negotiate on two wheels. Well, my journeys now are limited and will have to take place during windows of dry weather.

So a day of little activity beyond trying to find out why my Mosquito hasn’t been starting from cold for the past two or three weeks. I have had to bump start since I was in Rwanda. We think we have traced the problem to two tiny tears in the carburettor diaphragm. It’s not allowing sufficient fuel to start the motor. Looks as if I will have to continue to try to park on hills at night for a while! There are usually plenty of volunteers to give me a push. Cor, Rico’s Dutch neighbour, who’s something of an expert on motorbike engines, knows where we might get a new diaphragm in Nairobi.

The other afternoon, after sheltering from the rain for forty minutes, the bike wouldn’t start. “We push!” volunteered some boys. I thanked them, jumped aboard and began to push the bike with my feet down a slight, very muddy slope. I looked round and no one was pushing at all! Happily, the motor started before I got to the bottom. It starts easily with a push.

So I am happy to be here in Kitale, where I am made so easily welcome, during this wet period. The mornings are usually dry, so I may have to restrict my movement to earlier rides. It gets cold when it rains; not the cold of Britain, about which I receive various emails just now as temperatures plunge and even Devon is submerged beneath snow – the ‘Beast from the East’ as the media terms the cold spell, while the Arctic basks in temperatures way above freezing… My ‘cold’ is 15 degrees, when I have to put a thin jersey over my tee shirt and shorts.


It’s rained just about the whole day: wet, English rain. No doubt the farmers will be happy. I’m not. Oh well, I’ve only a few days to go. It makes for uneventful days though. Cor, next door, has managed to locate a new diaphragm in Nairobi for the Mosquito, which we hope will be sent up in a day or two, and I removed and replaced the carburettor successfully to bodge a repair, and managed to start the bike with a good push from two of the girls, so I can continue with my journey, dependent on the rain.

Meanwhile, it’s such fun to be part of this happy extended family. For one from a small nuclear family, being a member of such a cheerful, congenial, large household is a lot of fun. “Well, you’re not hard to get along with!” say Rico and Adelight; and I guess, in this situation, I’m probably not – but that’s more to their credit than mine! From little Maria, the happiest baby I’ve known, through Shamilla, who no one could help loving, through all the other girls, to Scovia, who just makes me smile to look at her – well, it’s an easy life for me, and a very joyful, merry one.

EAST AFRICA 2018 – photos from Rwanda and western Uganda


Rwanda is beautiful


A rainstorm passes over Lake Kivu at sunset, with Congo across the water


Tea estates are frequent in Rwanda


The southern end of Lake Kivu


The weather begins to turn towards the rainy season. Rwanda


More tea


These mountain tracks focus the mind despite the beauty


Lake Buyonyi, Uganda from the mountainside


Lake Bunyonyi, Uganda


Isaac, in his White Horse Inn uniform, Kabala, Uganda!


Ezra, White Horse Inn gateman, without whose advice I wouldn’t have discovered the hotel


Checking my map of their country while washing out my tank, Masaka, Uganda


Ibrahim, Masaka, Uganda


Hasani, Masaka, Uganda


‘Doc’, Masaka, Iganda


Jahz and customer in his motorbike spares shop, Masaka, Uganda


Madness in Kampala


Chaotic downtown Kampala


Stella, Jinja, Uganda


Typical East African fare, Jijna, Uganda