Bob's Blog

The Dreams of Dangerous Men

All men dream but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes to make it possible.
—T.E.Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom

I could tell it had been a tough two weeks by the length of my fingernails, not a minute spare to gnaw them down, despite the constant nagging anxiety and fear, unsure if T.E.Lawrence's words applied to me or the roaming bandits...

For several days, I had been following the path of the Great Rift Valley, as it cleaved itself through a rugged yet majestic landscape, weaving down towards Kenya, guiding me as I peddled. I was now at the far south-westerly extremity of Ethiopia and the last significant town of Omorate, set on the banks of the murky Omo River. I awoke to a heavy storm, snoozing my alarm as it pounded the corrugated roof of my wooden hut. I dozed, reluctant to face the day. From the limited information I had, I knew that on the other side of the river there was no road at all, just dusty tracks through an unending scrubland. I also knew the rain would have turned those formally hard baked tracks into thick mud by now. I waited, urging the storm to pass, appealing to the sun, hoping it would rise and bake the sludge back to its former state, to provide at least some respite from what was already going to be a nasty stretch. Once the clouds parted and the sun reared it's head, I left the safe enclave of my room and headed to the banks of the river, where I anxiously loaded my bike and gear onto a wobbly dugout canoe and crossed to into the unknown.

The west bank of Omorate was a fiercely contested patch of land, the cause of endless political bickering and tit for tat squabbles between the Sudanese, Ethiopians and Kenyans. My concern though, was the road, and it was as bad as I'd heard, worse after the torrential downpour and, to my disappointment, the sun had not yet worked its magic. Almost instantly, I was knee deep in mud, struggling to turn the pedals as it choked my wheels and chain. I had no option but to push, trudging and hauling my bike through the mud, following the driest path I could find, riding wherever and whenever possible, trying not to let the tribal people, laughing at my effort and circumstance, grind my down my tender nerves.

Eventually, I arrived at the last Ethiopian checkpoint, then onto the first Kenyan post. I'd made it to East Africa! The land of lions and elephants, zebras and buffalo, vast savannahs set against glacier capped mountains. It was the land many dreamed of when they thought of Africa, but also a land full of treacherous roads and a discontented people, still clinging to its tribal ties. There was an indifference to the nation state, there was no collective nation, no homogenised national culture, no national affiliation. Violent rebellion silently rumbled below the surface of Kenya's fragile peace, a peace often undermined by an uncontrollable northern belt. This area of Kenya was frequented by bandits whom paid little homage to Locke's inalienable rights to life, liberty and property, there was no state here to guarantee these privileges, this was tribal and anything went.

The following days of cycling were probably the hardest I've had since watching the white cliffs of Dover disappear under the cover of darkness. The 'road' had veered away from the Omo River and now followed the banks of the majestic Emerald Sea, Lake Turkana, and, rather than mud, the path was now deep, deep sand... I was effectively cycling along a beach. I managed to pedal most of the way, stopping to push only on the odd occasion, but fun this was most definitely not. I had my head down, glued to the road, picking the route where I wouldn't grind to a frustrating halt. I was standing up on the pedals, cycling for ten hours a day, rising before daybreak and not arriving until dust, with very few breaks in between. My back was taking a pounding, twisting and turning, jolting and jarring... it was a physically demanding journey to say the least.

After a well needed rest day at a Catholic mission, I ventured on toward Kalekol, which on the map, looked to be the first decent sized town since arriving in Kenya, and it had the promise of an asphalt road for some distance onward. The last stretch before Kalekol had me lusting for the delights I hoped it would hold. Thoughts of beer and good food kept me going, especially when the heavens opened, carving up the road, and when time and time again, killer thorns plunged deep into my tires, halting my progress. This wishful thinking came to an abrupt halt upon reaching the dilapidated lakeside town. An order for spaghetti, which arrived two minutes later, layered with rotting meat and cabbage heaped on top, dashed my hopes for a decent feed. In such disgust, I found myself unable and unwilling to eat this revolting excuse for food, that night I would cook myself; it was not time to celebrate yet, I didn't even allow myself the luxury of a beer.

Eager to leave the town, I pushed on early the next day to Lodwar. The town was at the other end of the asphalt and it had to be better, it certainly couldn't be worse... I wasn't disappointed. But, after cycling the morning in a torrential downpour, I was lucky to even make it to Lodwar. A broad river, crossing the road just on the outskirts had filled its banks, cars were waiting on both sides for perhaps hours hoping the flow would ease. Almost up to my knees and with a strong current, I nervously pushed through the river and reached the town to arrive at a delightful all women ran traditional lodge. The supermarkets in Lodwar were stocked full of Western treats and my most craved item, proper milk and cereal, creature comforts at last.

I would perhaps have enjoyed another restful day in Lodwar, but for the route ahead plaguing my mind, I could not be at ease. I knew from here for the next three hundred kilometres, towards Kitale, near the Ugandan border, there was a real chance of bandits. On the Michelin map, the road was marked down as a red road, one that was supposedly good tarmac. I knew that this was not the case and that it had deteriorated somewhat, but how bad could it be if it had once been a red route? Bad, very bad, was the answer... When you expect the worst, it's often not as hard as you expect, but when you expect more, it tends to bite you on the behind, and that it did, literally.

Frustrated at the road and in constant fear of bandits, I pushed on as hard as I could, I wanted it out of the way. So I cycled and cycled, barely stopping for breath. The sun was blisteringly hot, whilst angry storms hid behind every lurking mountain of the Great Rift Valley. Speaking to the locals, I asked where the bandits were hiding, I gathered nothing usually but fear induced nonsense, the police, the only ones who would provide sensible information. Stopping for lunch in one town, I met a black South African, who claiming he was a 'white man like me' already had me doubting his word. He warned of the road ahead, instilling me with fear, I had no chance, they would take everything he said, even my bike.

Cycling late into the evening, I was approaching a huge mountain range. Once over the range I knew I was safe, so I cycled on hoping to crash somewhere close to the bottom and climb the mountains in the morning, avoiding the blazing midday sun. A violent storm was blowing in and it felt very remote, there was nothing and no one to see for miles except the odd passing vehicle, armed guard in tow. Arriving in a small village, a kind policeman called Isaac gave me a metal shack in which to pitch my tent and even, to my delight, a plastic chair to sit on. Talk between us, soon turned to to bandits and to my great relief he told me that I had just cleared the prominent bandit area, the last few miles, 'God was with you' he said. He went on to show me a picture of a truck with a bullet proof windscreen peppered with bullet holes. Isaac said that the bandit was caught and was now behind bars and those incidents only occurred 'once in a blue moon'... my relief was plainly evident.

So whilst the bandits dream had him behind bars, my dream continued for another day. Now to find that beer...