MOVIE: Ethiopia - The North (Part 1)

So, you've read the write up, and seen the photos I trust...?

Perhaps even the best prose and pictures cannot do justice to the landscapes I've been riding through - and certainly my own results are pale in comparison with the real thing.

Here's an attempt to do better, using the magic of movies... But again, somehow I remember everything being brighter, greener, sunnier and peaceful - the movie camera can only do so much!  I haven't been able to load the HD version either, which might have helped.

Last point:  now that I'm trying to blend a decent amount of soundtrack and voiceover, along with stills and variable speed footage, I've started to reach the limits of my computer's processing ability.  So, rather than chop the film down to a few short clips I think a more enjoyable result is to break the Ethiopian movie into two...

This is Part 1, and you'll get the second part in due course!

Hope you like it.

Ethiopia (2): Heading North

The rain in Ethiopia stays mostly on the plain.  Or the mountain.  Or the city.

A week is a long time in Addis Ababa.   Twice a day, the city is saturated with rain (very this season) but otherwise is sprinkled with comparatively few tourist attractions.  This is no Paris, London, Tokyo or Sydney.  Established in1886, quite recent really, the 'New Flower' (as her name translates) seems to lack the many distinct districts - areas of contrasting history or character - that make a Buenos Aires and those other capital cities so enchanting.  And if you've seen one part, you've seen most of Addis: the bland part, that is.  Or at least, this is what I tell myself, to make me feel better about neglecting to look harder for the city's soul.

To be fair, Lucy lives here.  Lucy is the name of the 3.2 million year old skeletal remains discovered in Ethiopia in 1974, thus putting the country in a position near the bottom of the evolutionary ladder - the bottom rungs being the oldest and most prestigious, for once.  Lucy was, perhaps, a missing step in the increasingly upright progression from ape to hominid to human, and thence back down to estate agent.

I pass Lucy's home, in the National Museum, on the way to and from and to and from the Egyptian Embassy.  I'm cheered by my success in obtaining another necessary visa to help me travel further north, but disappointed to not find time to ape the behaviour of fresh-faced tourists and actually visit the most noteworthy girl in town.  I could have read about her from where you're sitting now.  My disappointment is growing.

I also fail to register other museums and monuments that I may have passed, as this would puncture the illusion I've started to spin.  Addis' bloody history, for example, was there to be visited:

Yekatit 12 Monument

Rising dramatically from Siddist Kilo is this moving monument to the thousands of innocent Ethiopians killed by the Italians as retribution for the attempt on Viceroy Graziani’s life on 19 February 1937. Graphic depictions of the three-day massacre are captured in bronze and envelop the lower half of the marble obelisk.

Another, towering monument - the Derg Monument - reminds those who visit about the sad chapter of Communist rule over Ethiopia, between 1974 and 1991.  The socialist experiment finally fell apart, but not before an estimated 100,000 political opponents had been killed and thousands had fled abroad, in 1977.  Hundreds of thousands also died in the famine that followed the 1984-5 drought, with the government's mismanagement of disaster relief programmes blamed for exacerbating the situation.  Pressed for time, or ignoring any distraction, I don't visit this monument either, of course.

Between rain storms Ethiopia has some exceptionally lovely scenery - photos are inadequate I'm afraid!

Although I diligently read the rest of the Lonely Planet guide, the city and it's historical place within the country remains on the page.  Neither I nor any of the other travellers venture out to visit the huge sprawling Merkato (market), wander the Piazza or sample the nightlife - even when a national festival shuts shops and sends the people into the streets and parks to celebrate.  Clearly, we're all a bit jaded by our time on the road.  Gone is the boundless enthusiasm to immerse in local culture.  We'd rather sit at plastic tables and order another Fanta.

Just good friends.  My bank has a lot to learn about relationships.

I spend the week trying to push along my application for a replacement Carnet de Passage.  I occupy a table in the Sheraton's expensive business centre for whole days, on the 'phone or emailing, rather than experiencing the real city.  My disappointment is hard to convey to the call centre staff, who probably assume (with some justification) that I'm on a long 'jolly' and won't suffer much from the computer says 'no' syndrome.

My bank tells me, eventually and after lots of follow up calls and requests for reliable information, that I need to send an additional set of documents to them, and that in any event nothing will happen until next week as someone's on holiday.  That this takes them (or should that be 'me'?) a week to communicate is unfortunate.  The Customer Solutions team hasn't been much of a solution, the Guarantee Team are guaranteed only to wind me up with their lack of energy, and my Relationship Manager is the one on holiday - thereby sending our new relationship into counselling before it has properly begun.

As the on-hold music plays, I research more about the route(s) north.  Many overlanders arrive at Wim's Holland House and are set to travel south.  Swapping notes of what to see (or not see), where and when to visit, and which fixers are worth engaging makes for good evening conversation.  I clean my bike, and tried to repair any damage or tighten any screws shaken loose on the road to and since Moyale - it's therapeutic, you see, to work on my bike.

By Saturday we are all keen to escape the city and see more countryside.  Some of the crowd (including Daan and Mirjam) are going to head northwest, to Bahir Dar and Lake Tana.  I'm set on the northeast fork of the road, which will take me up to the stone churches of Lalibela, via Desse.   (More on those next time.)  Our point of rendezvous should be Gondar, or the nearby Simien Mountains National Park.  This way, everyone gets to see what they are most interested in.

-----------------------------------------

Pastel patchwork on the high plateau

Not knowing what the northwestern route holds, I nevertheless feel I have made the right choice, by not going left.  The road across the high Guassa Plateau is superb, and the bright green pasture lands are... well, delightful.  

I've caught the end of the rains, so everything is very bright and clean: cattle-herding children stand out sharply amongst the flowering meadows, whilst misty mountains form a distant purple backdrop.  This is as pretty, in its way, as riding through the Alps.

Towards Debre Berhan the road thickens like a lorry-driver's arteries; lined with the rich debris of laden donkeys, carts and camels.  Crowds of people busily making their way along the road - to the town, certainly, but where exactly I'm not sure.  When the flow reverses direction, when the white robed tribesmen and women walk facing me, I realise that whatever it was, I've missed it.  

So, I double back and chase the crowd up bumpty muddy side roads.  All roads - or all donkeys at least - are leading to the thronging Saturday market, so I just go with the flow of the crowd.  Blending in, on the giant BMW? Hardly.

When the watcher becomes the watch-ee it's time to go back out on the highway!

 I spend a welcome break from riding, just watching the hurly burly of the place.  Shy kids gravitate closer to where I'm standing, but won't meet my eye.  An older chap, in his twenties, comes forward to practice his English.  We chat a bit and he even tries to teach me some of the local dialect.  It's a good point - I really ought to have learnt a little by now, but I'm shamefully ignorant.  (Besides, it's bloody hard!)   By now, a crowd is gathered around my bike, and the magic of quietly watching the goings on has dissipated.  I say a lengthy farewell and head off;  picking my way carefully between the horse-drawn taxicabs, the distracted donkeys and the many, many people.

Damn, I must have just missed Jesus...

I'm descending off the sunny plateau, down a wonderfully winding asphalt helta skelta - the Mezezo Escarpment, the map says.  I says it should be a draw for any touring biker or driver: the sweeping views down over the cultivated slopes and plains are more dramatic than a Broadway hit's last show.

I'm making such good progress, despite stops for photos, donkeys and fuel that I press on through Desse.  In truth I'm just enjoying the riding so much I really don't want it to end yet.  The light starts to soften, ever so gently, and the low sun gives the landscape an evening glow.  One last pause for filming, and then I spot a likely-looking village motel.  It's spartan, and the shower is icy cold, but the location is convenient - a car load of friendly Americans pulls in too, and as their local guide has brought them here I figure this is a vote of confidence in the place.

I sleep well, until woken by the sound of a singer and her pianist coming through the window - I mean, the music was coming through the window, not the singer and the pianist.  After breakfast I investigate, and soon and I'm recording carefully one of their tracks for my current movie: local music like this is good to find, and their melody captures as much about Ethiopia as any of my film footage.  It's a lovely song.  I'm sorry to decline their invitation to visit their church and see a full performance.  Even though I tend to flinch away from religion, if I had time to ride back to Desse, the offer would have been tempting.

The sublime riding doesn't let up:  I spend the morning cruising along smooth country roads, watching meadows ebb and flow away to my left.  There's no point rushing, because every kilometer or so a few hands are herding cattle along the road.  The sharp horns of the cows are tremendous - a point or two that wouldn't be lost on my bike, if I lost my concentration - yet it is the milling mix of sheep and goats that I have to really focus on.  They wander in all directions, and too frequently a young animal gets skittish as my motorcycle approaches..

By mid-morning the reliable GPS map is telling me to take a sharp right, at Dilbe, and the clever little computer takes me on a tour of the backcountry.  I'm loving the quiet gravel road and over the next 40 miles find myself as happy as I've ever been on this trip - which is saying something. 

Try not to take the point.

This off-road section has just enough technical bits to keep me on my toes, or rather my foot-pegs.  As always, my big GS handles such hurdles with the muscular ease of Colin Jackson, smoothly laying down huge power without any apparent effort.  Young lads nod and clap as another steep climb-out from a riverbed is disbatched with a rich surge of torque.

The breathtaking scenery continues; around each bend in the escarpment another picture postcard view.  From small villages, or from a few well tended huts, children spill out - waving and watching.  Faces from all ages are present in this rural setting - lined and weathered; sweat shined and healthy; or modestly hidden behind a veil.  It's the cute-as-pie grins of the little girls that wins the prize, however - often peering up from underneath a back-breaking bundle of wood that's being carried manfully up the hill to the family huts.  Child labour?  Alive and well out here; but then, so are the children it seems.

Finally, pursued by threatening rain clouds, I tumble out onto an asphalt main road.  This is the road from the little field airport that serves Lalibela, and the single lane winds up onto the escarpment-proper to the town.  I whizz up the last five miles, shaking my head at the continuing feast of vistas.  I only need to find a cheap hotel before the clouds burst and this will have been a perfect day.
My time in Addis may have been shallow, but the depth of experience I've had in the north of Ethiopia has already made up for it.  The fat drops of rain can still be counted as I unload my overnight holdall and clunk noisily into my room.   

Don't hang about lad, or the rain'll  get you...

Ethiopia (1) - The South

High-rise termites... mind where you pitch your tent, guys..

'Too much waving and not enough rock throwing...', is the strange observation we agree at our lunch stop.  Long may it continue.

All he wants (for Christmas) is his two front teeth

Ethiopia is notorious amongst cyclists (motor- or pedal-) for reports of surly youths chucking stones at the passing tourists.  Like a derailed train, the damage to - and by - a sliding motorcycle is out of proportion to the ease with which the disaster could be caused.  We've been wary about becoming the latest victims of this scary scenario.

But no - quite the opposite.   From the moment we crossed the Mojale border into southern Ethiopia, we have experienced a wonderful welcome.  The countryside threw off the barren desert dust and greened up quicker than a Tory MP in election year.   The road became lined with country folk herding cattle or camels between towns.  As soon as I finish returning the wave of one group of grinning goat herders, I'm waving to another group on the other side - it seems rude to ignore their friendly greetings, and unwise given the aforementioned reputation.

Entrusted with the family herd, but not an education.

 I'm fascinated to visit this country - I know so little about it, but have heard often that we'll love it.  To try and find out more, I dive into the Lonely Planet ('LP') guide book: 'Ethiopia has stood out from all African nations and proved itself to be a unique world of its own – home to its own culture, language, script, calendar and history.  Ethiopian Orthodox Christians and Muslims alike revel in the fact that Ethiopia was the only nation on the continent to successfully fight off colonisation.'  Right, well, I suppose I have a lot more reading to do...!

From my viewpoint on the bike, the population of Ethiopia seems to have exploded.  The country measures five times the size of Great Britain, but there's plenty of desert, semidesert and mountains... so without packed high-rise cities I now understand why it seems so crowded.  In 2006 Ethiopia's population squeezed past the 73-million mark, an huge figure considering the population was just 15 million in 1935.  LP calculated that if the 2.5% growth rate continued, Ethiopia would be bursting with almost 120 million people by 2025.  

Despite AIDS, which affected 12.6% of the urban population then, and inevitably slowed future growth, I suspect the population increase is back on track.

In this, mostly rural area it feels like there are people everywhere - I'm always able to see someone (and usually many people) no matter where I look.  This causes some consternation when we try to find a quiet spot to bush camp, although I suspect locals are probably as afraid of stumbling into a bunch of smelly bikers as we are of being stumbled upon. 

My reading quickly throws up a likely explanation...

'With almost everyone toiling out in the fields, it’s not surprising that only 38.5% (World Bank figures) of the population is literate.  Since young children are needed to help with the family plots and animals, only 52% of children attend primary school.  Older children are in even more demand in the workforce, which means secondary schools sadly only see only 12% of kids.  If all children under 16 were forced to attend school, Ethiopia’s workforce would be ravaged and almost half of the country’s entire population would be attending classes.' - LP 2006

Although the lush, busy countryside seems completely at odds with the 'famine' I blindly associated with Ethiopia (dimly remembered from 1984-5?), I suppose with so many people if the crops do fail, there are a lot of mouths still to feed. 

LP pipes up with the following warning: 'the pressures for living space, firewood, building materials, agricultural land, livestock grazing and food will only further reduce natural resources, and wipe out larger areas of wildlife habitat.'  I can work out for myself that stripping 95% the countries original forest will lead to soil errosion and thus exacerbate the threat of famine.

--------------------------------------------

We have abandoned our hopes to see the Omo Valley region (the remote route that takes you through tribes sporting lip plates, long necks and droopy ear lobes).  Finding a fuel carrier to extend the range of our bikes was difficult, and we'd been warned that the inland tracks were likely to be wetter and muddier than we were prepared to chance.

Despite the tiring few days we had reaching Mojale, we decide to press on. 

Early Sunday morning we start a long day to try and reach Addis Ababa before nightfall.  Getting into the capital city would, we figure, be slow in the Monday morning rush hour.  And besides, I have to find fast internet access urgently, to try and smooth out a glitch in my application for a new Carnet de Passage. 

A stork tends his fishing nets...

It's a demanding day: hazard-filled roads where you can't let your concentration waver for a moment.  Kids run out to wave at me - will they slip or stop? - and animals weave between vehicles, or stand idly by, oblivious to the danger.  Frequently, a minivan would veer away suddenly: presenting me with a choice between a group of deep potholes, a wobbly guy in a tuk-tuk, or a stationary horse or three.  By this point, waving to the locals is becoming silly - there's just too much else to concentrate on. 

When the cambered asphalt town road becomes slick with mud I have an ominous feeling that I'll soon be sitting on my arse, rather than the bike.  I slide my steed along tentatively, wishing I had sharp hooves rather than lively rubber tyres to rely on.

Probably not a good idea to venture off the main road, then...

The rain follows soon - explaining the lush countryside - and the humidity quickly steams up my helmet visor.  Potholes now hide under puddles, and muddy clods clog the tread on my wheels.  It's treacherous stuff, completely contrasting with the cheerful crowd whose highlight of the morning is evidently three foreign motorcycles going by.

I'm keen on reaching the capital city tonight - and we've agreed Daan and Mirjam might decide to take another day over the distance.  So, gradually I build a bit of a 'lead':  I'm confident of my energy levels, concentration and riding experience and don't want to hold up our trio once we reach Addis.  Riding solo is usually quicker than riding in a group.

Only camels for lunch today, thankfully

Stretching out, a little ahead of them, I'm actually enjoying the solitude.  We've been living in one anothers' dust for four days, but as a solo rider (normally) I have missed the autonomy and decision-making that makes up part of my adventure.  

But, we do tend to travel at a complementary pace and before long my Dutch companions spot the bike I've left out for them, and join me for a lunch stop.  They have a glum face on.

5km ealier, Daan had misjudged an overtake and braked hard - too hard for Mirjam, who collided with his pannier and was skittled across the road.  Both she and her bike had slid, but nothing broke on either of them, which is a blessing.  It's a classic biker crash - I've almost done the same myself in years gone by - but probably has more to do with fatigue than anything.  There's not much we can do to alieviate that, other than recognise the warning signs and drive even more carefully.

If bad things come in threes, then at least the guys have had their quota for a while.  The afternoon is free from incidents - a period of careful concentration.

Great coffee - if you drink it, that is

We've reached Wim's Holland House before dark: it's another overlanders' hub and we join a cheeful group who already know the ropes.  Tired and relieved to have ridden in safely, we let the rain persuade us into taking cheap rooms, rather than pitch our tents.  (Frankly, the price was virtually the same).

Tomorrow we will scurry around getting paperwork in order, applying for more visas and researching the road ahead.  I'll be trying to push through my Carnet application and guarantee from the bank, which could take a while.

 

Pretty soon, though, we'll only have sight-seeing to think about.  The rock churches, spectacular mountains and castles of northern Ethiopia await.

MOVIE: Kenya to Ethiopia

Here we go... a summary of the tough desert stretch from Kenya to Ethiopia, otherwise known as the dreaded Road to Moyale.

Two falls, no submissions and a win on points for the hard riding trio.

If you want to read all the drama please just check back on the previous blog note.

NB: this is much better viewed in HD720, so take a moment to click on your 'settings' cog to change it from the poor quality 360 default setting.  You'll see the cog on the bottom of the viewing screen once the download starts.  Then wait a few moments so that the download buffers sufficiently to give you a lovely smooth view!

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.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

-----------------------------

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?