Kenya: The Road to Moyale

Watch out for punctures - tyres and air mats beware

Riding around Mount Kenya isn't quite as enjoyable as the circumnavigation of it's taller neighbour, Mount Kilimanjaro, a few days before.  The neatly cultivated valleys between Embu and Meru are lovely, and dozens of people walking the road make a spectacle; but strangely these aspects have become...well, a little routine to us I suppose.  After so long in the saddle it's a bit sad to feel my powers of observation are suffering fatigue too.

Yet we can't relax: Kenya goes in for speed bumps in a big way - causing one Bavarian lady to hitch up her skirts and leap through the air as a bump took her (and me) by suprise.  This time she handles it gracefully, and I can breath again. 

Last Equator crossing on this trip.

Joining the main road after that pleasant diversion we point north and keep going.  A force draws - or propels? - us on, deriving its strength from the reputation of the next stretch of road.  The road to Moyale is regarded by bikers as a widow-maker, in the sense that your other half (the two-wheeled half) will rarely make it unscathed.  As you can imagine, we are each very sensitive about this, fearing the worst for our trusty steeds.  We're feeling defensive and indignant at the threat.  There's also a bit of bravado too - surely this road can't be any worse than some of those we've already enountered?

We cross the Kaisut Desert plateau on a good road - the heat is no problem as we're travelling quickly.  The scenery is stark, yet the traditional dress of the tribespeople is colourful and complicated - I felt awkward about stopping for photos, but the movie catches a few examples.  

I'm curious about what lies ahead - what we're about to get into.  At a village just short of Laisamis, some 100 miles earlier than I had scribbled on my map, the asphalt unexpectedly runs out.  The gravel and sand begins here, then. Gulp.

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Shaken, but not stirred - Dan's cracked cockpit

Seconds out, Round 1.  Two hours along the Road To Moyale and we've barely gone 20 miles.  At times the road is just one giant sand trap, and has us paddling frantically.  Daan is more comfortable on soft surfaces and can enjoy himself.  For me (and to a lesser extent, Mirjam) it is a very rude start to the contest.  We attempt to build our skills - pushing our comfort boundaries and attempting the combination of sand and soft gravel - you need to power through this stuff. 

Round 2.  To an extent this works, and we make faster progress.  But, suddenly I find myself beginning to fishtail into the soft berms, I realise this is a one-way ride I'm on:  when your traction starts to go pear-shaped like this the ONLY option is to accelerate hard and pull the wheels back into some semblance of control.  It's horribly scary stuff.  As I feel the bike return to 'normal' I'm left sweating and tense from the mental and physical strain, and waiting for the next moment - it's coming.  The surface keeps changing from firm to soft, but if you simply slow to a crawl your bike gets shaken to pieces on the corrugations, or jack-knifes in a soft rut.  Damned if you, damned if you don't: this is the cruel 'fun' of the Road to Moyale.  At least we've only got 300 miles to go.

Round 3.  By some rocks we pause to let my shock absorber cool a little - I've been warned that overheated shocks can burst their oil seals after prolonged rough treatment on the corrugations.  Getting stranded in the desert is a no-no, duh, so I have to be patient and give the bike a chance.  The Hondas look on - confident the rules of thermodynamics won't apply to them, for some reason, and I feel awkward to be slowing the group progress.  This is going to be a feature of our ride to Moyale, so I focus on riding smoothly and quickly; leaving Daan and Mirjam to take their time, and all the photos, whilst I crouch by the side of the road and mop my shock with a wet rag. 

A patch of welcome shade as I cool the shock down.  Again.

Round 4.  We know that making our target town tonight is too ambitious.  Barely five miles further down the track sensibly Daan suggests we call a halt for the night - it's too difficult (and dangerous) to spot the changes in the road surface.  Besides, there's no fun in searching for a campsite in the dark or putting up the tent by moonlight.  We're all tired and readily agree; we're experienced in this game.

We pitch in a slight clearing set well back from the road.   Out here in the desert the ground is still warm to the touch after the day's sun.  We clear the long thorns and sharp branches and lay out our sweat-soaked kit to dry.  It's soon dark, but the sky is clear and star-spangled so I only lay out my sleeping bag.  We're quite happy out here, rough camping, and it's only later that I'm reminded of scorpions, snakes, ants and perhaps Hyena... Perhaps I should have put up my tent after all?  We turn our head torches off and sleep by 8pm, to improve our chances of making good, early miles tomorrow. 

Friday.  Round 5.  We are away at 7, pretty much on schedule, and make good time over to Marsabit.  This is where we were vaguely hoping to reach yesterday, but it's already 9am and warming up fast.  Things suddenly take a turn for the worse, when the local police roll into town.

Or rather, roll into Mirjam...  in a freak accident at the gas station.  The officer's Toyota Landcruiser suffers a brake failure just as he tries to halt alongside a gas pump.  Unfortunately, Mirjam had just backed into his path, and proves the only means of stopping the runaway vehicle:  a nasty-looking slow-motion collision results, with the Honda being bashed over and pushed a couple of feet along the ground.  Mirjam herself is, mercifully, knocked clear of the bike.

Tidy welding & cutting, eh?

A melee erupts.  Two passionate Dutch nationals are screaming blue murder at the Kenyan man in the green uniform.  He's in shock - either at the near fatal brake failure, or at the sight of The Netherlands' finest in full fury in front of him.  The gathering crowd helps separate the two vehicles, and the two nationalities, and things calm down a little.

Daan insists - quite rightly - that Mirjam's bike gets fixed immediately, at the cost of the gentleman who drove the colliding Toyota.  This seems a workable approach as the guy has no insurance and is terrified of losing his job (or more) if the accident is reported.  He also needs to get his brakes fixed again.

Round 6.  Location change: a nearby welder's yard.  Daan inspects the bike and says the damage is limited to two main areas: a bent pannier rack, and the exhaust pipe is now fouling the leftside swing arm.  Each can be bent back into shape, and so he sets about this with the helpful intervention of the main mechanic on site.  Three hours later the bike is ready.  All in all, it's a quick(ish), inexpensive and successful operation.  Mirjam is less tearful and has recovered herself; Daan is pleased at his mechanical success; and the Kenyan policeman is visibly relieved too.  I'm so glad we've suffered nothing worse.

The only tree for miles around, but no leaves...

Round 7.  After an early lunch we head back out from our corner and start to put some more points on the board.  The cool morning temperatures are long gone and we're heading down into the next stretch of hell, the Dida Galgalu Desert.  There's thick thorn bushes initally, but these fade out and soon we have dense fields of sharp-looking volcanic bolders to either side.  No good for camping, no good for crashing and barely a tree in sight.  At any faint shady spot we stop to hydrate, and to let my shock cool again.  If we're lucky, only a few trucks rumble by and the dust clouds quickly dissipate.

Round 8.  This road to / from Moyales is well known by the overlander community.  Dark tales are told of those broken shock absorbers, blown fork seals, ruptured tyres and dented rims.  Over the next two hundred miles, the route throws a horrible mix of bike-bashing terrain at us: unfortunates forced along its narrow path, we take a terrible beating.  Out in the desert we wave at a few people - there aren't many, but they often carry an AK47 to help herd the goats or camels and it's best to be friendly to these guys, eh?

Everyone squeezes into what little shade they can find...

Round 9.  We're determined to last the fight.  No need to rush, we agree, since speed merely hastens the demise of our bikes.  When we go too slow, however, corrugations shake our bones from their sockets.

We grapple, wrestling the front wheel between rocks; trying to find the right balance between haste and speed; working our way steadily though the sand, across the potholes, around the rocks and into and out of the deep fesh-fesh pits.  In any village (we pass a handful) a few bashful kids come up to wave, and then try out their English.  Out here they also usually ask for water, rather than money. 

 

Round 10.  Daan takes a jab he wasn't expecting, and dives into the choking dust.  It's quite a tumble, by his own admission, and he needs a full count to gather his senses and the broken pieces of faring.   We bush camp again; early, so Daan can spend a couple of hours this evening pulling things back into shape, and binding broken plastics together.  Again, it could have been so much worse.  He's tired and that's when your judgment starts to go.  Out here, we need to allow a bigger margin for surprises.

Round 11.  Two knock-downs for the Hondas, but so far my delicate BMW shock is surviving - the too-hot-to-touch temperature of the oil reservoir has yet to leak, and I'm diligent about cooling-down time. 

Sometimes only 30-minute riding bursts are possible across the worst corrugations, but I stretch the sessions as much as I dare when the going is less vibrant.  Any delay is a source of tension though, and I sense the Hondas would like to push on and finish the fight.  We've had a couple of tired, cross words over little things - misunderstandings mostly - and I can feel the strain that this road is exerting on our usual patterns.  I'm weary from standing on the pegs for two days; from scanning intently the road ahead; from eating cereal and water all day.  But I'm not alone: we're literally in this together, still friends and not giving in.

Final bell. Round 12.  On the third day of our odyssey we close in on Moyales, hitting our straps and making a last surge of effort.  We're wise to the tricks and traps of the road and pick off the bends one by one, the miles dropping steadily - 80, 65, 45, 20.... 10.  The corrugations can't hurt us now and the knock out views distract us not a jot.  A hill raises the road one last time but the bikes are in full flow and crest it powerfully into the border post: the finish.  We've made it, come out on top and ahead of the Mojale road on points - two knock downs, no submissions... and an intact shock absorber.  What a contest!

A more benign stretch of road - almost enjoyable, in fact.

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We rode through the full range of road trauma that the Moyale route could throw at us - soft sand, deep fesh-fesh, harsh rocks, gravel, potholes, thorns and ruts.  It was exhausting and the tactic of taking three days was effective.   Did the Moyale monster live up to it's reputation?  Definitely.  By virtue of the changing road conditions, the degree of difficulty and sheer duration of the challenge, this is one of the hardest roads I've had to deal with.  

Check out the movie summary on the next post :)  Movie-kenya-to-ethiopia

The girl dun good, eh?