Southern Comfort

Day 341

Milage 29,009 (46,414 km)

The rains are coming

After well over a month in Ethiopia it finally became apparent that if I am ever to complete this journey then I must continue to move south. I had started to grow comfortable with the people, the language and the culture and although there will always be more to see and do in this beautiful and diverse country the impending rains were about to make moving on even more difficult. While at Holland House, in Addis Ababa, I’d bumped into a fellow over-lander with similar plans for riding south on an identical bike. Ross Clarke, from England had been staying in Addis awaiting parts and repairing his bike after a losing control while trying to avoid a cow in the road. As a professional engineer he knew his way around the insides of a motorcycle and had been keeping busy helping the owner of Holland House, Wim, with the upkeep and maintenance of the aging guesthouse. 

The amazingly capable Ross Clarke

There are two possible ‘roads’ from Ethiopia into Kenya, the most commonly used route goes through the border town of Moyale, it is recommended that you travel this way only in the daytime and, ideally, as part of a large convoy as tribal conflicts in the area have created occasional problems for those passing through . Some time ago in Egypt another rider had advised me to attempt the alternative route from Omorate to Lake Turkana but he had warned of the remoteness of the region with, potentially, no fuel, food or water for up to 1000 kilometers and challenging riding conditions along the entire way. With my bike’s range tested to approximately 650 kilometers, when riding conservatively, I’d decided that if I couldn’t find someone going in the same direction then it would be an unwise choice. 

As it turned out Ross had similar plans but was awaiting someone to ride with so we sat down over a cold beer and discussed how best to approach the challenging route. The lack of fuel was to be our most pressing concern, followed by water and then food. With my bike already carrying close to its maximum weight I had some concerns over adding yet more, the rear shock on the F800GS is said to be one of the weaker components and Ross had just replaced his after it had failed several weeks before. Ideally we wanted to find a group of four wheelers going in the same direction so we could offload the additional fuel and water that we would need to complete the journey. Over-landers pass through Holland House with regularity, it is a small oasis of like minded people on the long road from Cairo to Cape Town and within a few days a large Toyota Landcruiser pulled up carrying two young guys on their own journey from The Netherlands to South Africa, we did our best to try to convince them to join us on our intended route but their tight time schedule would not allow for the significant detour. The momentum of our planning and the intrigue of the unknown swayed our preference towards the more interesting, but challenging Turkana route and we decided to throw caution to the wind and attempt it regardless of the logistical difficulties.

The Protector of Arba Minch

With our bikes packed we said goodbye to the wonderful staff at Holland House and turned south along the Rift Valley, swapping the grimy city streets of Addis Ababa for the pristine lakes and mountains of southern Ethiopia. We stopped briefly in the Rastafarian outpost of Shashemene before pulling into the lakeside town of Awasa in time for a few cold beers with some friendly local Peace Corp volunteers as the sun set over the placid waters. Impossibly large Marabou Storks quarreled in the trees above us or scavenged along the shoreline as the sky blazed with color. The following morning we left the peaceful town and turned south west toward the small city of Arba Minch on the shores of Lake Abaya, the last sizable settlement before leaving the paved roads and venturing into the Omo Valley region. We spent a couple of days there stocking up on supplies and filling every possible container with additional petrol, uncertain as to where we would see the next source of fuel. Soon after leaving Arba Minch the asphalt disappeared and we wondered whether this was the beginning of the infamous 1000 kilometers of dirt roads. The surface of the roads varied significantly from bone jarring corrugations to fast, well graded, smooth dirt. We had both fitted new rear tires before leaving Addis and we were glad of the additional traction provided by the aggressive tread patterns, progress was fast and we took a short detour into the small village of Key Afer where a colorful, open air market was in full swing. Tribes from the local region gathered in their traditional dress adorned with colorful beads and animal hides, their hair braided and coated in red ochre and animal fat. As soon as we pulled up on our large motorcycles we became the center of attention and we were quickly surrounded by a large crowd of curious onlookers. Children would poke our bulky riding outfits marveling at the underlying armor that makes our elbows, knees and shoulders look somewhat deformed. It was oppressively hot underneath our heavy suits so we stopped for a cold drink at a nearby hotel before resuming our ride towards the village of Turmi and the camp we had chosen for the night.  

A young Hamar girl near Turmi

Just before reaching Turmi, on a stretch of particularly rough road, the back of my motorcycle began to violently fishtail and I assumed I had blown my rear tire, I struggled to keep the bike upright as I tried to bring it to a halt only to find that one of my panniers had detached itself from the luggage rack and was dragging behind the bike held on only by a thin security cable. One of my fuel containers had ruptured and after salvaging the contents that remained we carried out a quick roadside fix and were soon on our way again. Every time we would pull over along this road, no matter how isolated we though we were, before long a local would turn up to stare at our unusual machines. By early evening we reached a small campsite on the outskirts of Turmi which had been recommended by a Dutch couple who had traveled through the region a few weeks before. After a peaceful night we packed up our camp as a young boy from the local Hamar tribe deftly climbed through the mango trees above showering us with ripe fruit for a delicious breakfast. From Turmi we continued southwest towards the sleepy border town of Omorate in order to have our documents stamped out of Ethiopia. On our arrival in Omorate, as we negotiated with some locals over the price of the black market fuel, the skies darkened and suddenly a huge rainstorm turned the sandy roads to slick, sticky mud. The locals warned us that the roads in town were nothing compared to what lay ahead and it would be wise to spend the night so that the tracks could dry out before we got into the really difficult terrain. The rainy season was upon us and as we settled into a cheap, simple hotel we wondered if attempting this route was a wise choice at this time of year.

My bike having a rest

By morning the roads appeared to have dried, we filled our fuel containers, topped up our water supplies, and set out to find the indistinct turn off towards Kenya. We were immediately greeted by deep sand, muddy river crossings and blistering heat. It was slow going and by the end of the day, after nearly eight hours of challenging riding we had covered just over seventy kilometers. Exhausted, thirsty and hungry we pulled into the small village of Ileret just inside the Kenyan border, the prospect of several more days of this type of traveling was both daunting and exhilarating. After registering with the local police we found a small shop and enjoyed a warm Coca-Cola and a packet of dry biscuits. The police kindly offered to let us use their barracks as a camp for the evening but a local man from the Daasanach tribe suggested we try staying at the Turkana Basin Institute (TBI), ten kilometers to the south. We took his advice and rode to the gate of the fenced compound and asked to see the manager who agreed to let us camp within, it was only after asking him the purpose of the institute that we realized we had stumbled across one of the dig sites of the renowned anthropologist Dr Richard Leakey. Still under construction the site will eventually host fieldwork groups from around the world as the fossil rich region is explored more extensively. What has been found to date would strongly suggest that this region was pivotal in the evolutionary story of humanity and it is now commonly referred to as the ‘Cradle of Mankind’.

Tea with Arkoy at The Turkana Basin Institute

The staff at the institute made us feel very welcome, we dined with the workers that evening on a simple but delicious meal of lentils and chapatis. After several cups of sweet milky tea the following morning we said our goodbyes and thanked the crew for their kindness but, less than five kilometers from the gate my bike developed a problem and soon we were stranded. Ross rode back to the institute and asked for some assistance and before long I was being towed back to the compound by one of their helpful drivers. It was still early and we spent the rest of the morning going through probably causes for my sudden loss of electrical power. When I say ‘we’ it was mostly Ross who diagnosed the bike, as a professional marine engineer he has an intimate knowledge of all things mechanical and electrical and by lunchtime he’d isolated the fault to a damaged stator within the alternator. Part of the system that generates electrical power for the bike it is critical for its correct functioning, while the engine is running it tops up the battery’s power which, in turn serves the bikes multiple electrical systems. Without power the bike’s Engine Control Unit (ECU) ceases to function, the fuel injectors quit and the coils fail to create their much needed ignition sparks. We were stranded, a long way from any kind of repair or replacement opportunities, the manager of the institute made a call to the head office of TBI who agreed to allow us to stay as long as it would take to have a spare brought in or have the bike carried out on the back of a truck. Over the next few days we tried to find a viable spare or a suitable truck that could fit the bike on board for the long journey out. We were at least three full days drive from Nairobi and at the end of a long and challenging road, trucks were rare and all spare seats were typically oversubscribed long before they even arrived. There was a rumor of a large truck trying to make its way to the institute from the town of Marsabit but it was still two days away and road conditions were preventing it from getting closer. When a truck finally did show up four days later the driver wanted an extortionate amount to get the bike to a place where it could be repaired or stored until a spare could be located. At this point we bought a new 12 volt truck battery off the priest at a small catholic mission, strapped it to the back of the bike and set off once again. We had spent five nights at the institute and had been very well looked after. It was sad to say goodbye but we had to try to get out of the area under our own steam.

Daasanach girls eyeing Ross as a potential husband

For the next five days we struggled south on some of the most challenging roads we have ridden to date. Deep sand (my personal nemesis), loose rock, slick mud and thorny bushes all compounded to make for a true adventure, never sure how long the battery on my bike would last we spent many hours on the side of the road switching power sources from one bike to the other. In the evenings we would pull into small villages in the hope of finding a charger to top up the big battery, unfortunately many of the chargers were solar powered and of little use at night. Our concerns over the lack of fuel took a backseat after we discovered most villages would have at least one, albeit overpriced, source. The bikes took a beating and the damage after over 1000 kilometers of rough roads consisted of one broken alternator, two punctures, one battered pannier and a broken luggage frame. In hindsight it was all worth it, the terrain we experienced along the way was breathtaking; lush rolling hillsides, scorching hot, barren flat deserts, deep gorges and the igneous rocks of the lakeshore of Turkana. Wild herds of oryx and zebra roamed the open plains, camel trains crowded the dusty roads and the people we met along the way were simply fascinating. Many of the experiences we had would not have happened had we not had our challenges along the way. When we finally hit our first asphalt road we felt glad to finally ride on a smooth surface but a little disappointed that our only significant dangers from now on would be other drivers. I need to keep reminding myself that they drive on the left in Kenya, or they are supposed to. We broke up the ride to Nairobi by stopping at the campsite at Thomson’s Falls Lodge in the town of Nyahururu where we bumped into an inspiring young Dutch couple, Peter and Leonie, who are on their own voyage to Cape Town. Ross had ridden with them in Libya and they were coincidentally staying at the same campground. You can follow their adventures on www.amsterdamtoanywhere.nl, of course such an auspicious reunion gave us the excuse to have our first genuinely cold beers since leaving Ethiopia. The following day, after charging the battery for the final time, we set out along the edge of the Rift Valley, across the equator and into the bustling, sprawling city of Nairobi towards the comfortable over-lander haven of Jungle Junction. As I pulled into the premises my bike spluttered to a halt, the battery completely spent. I plan to spend a few days here while I find a local expert with experience in rewinding stators, it will be significantly cheaper than having one shipped from abroad. In the meantime my bike is long overdue for some much needed maintenance and with two full time mechanics onsite and the knowledge of the resident expert Chris Handschuh I can’t think of a place more suited to my needs at this time than here. 

Samburu warriors in South Hor