Bike-venture Episode 1

I was on the road by 0900, having slathered my exposed skin with sunscreen hoping to combat the equatorial sun. I hadn’t a route or destinations planned, but I figured with water, mixed nuts, and TP I should be good for the day. I still don’t have sunglasses, so my eyes filled with the dust of lorries on the packed dirt road. On downhills the speedbumps slowed traffic, but provided jumps for me. My bike tolerated the road surface better than many four wheel vehicles and I often managed to pass them, though it required biking hard through their dust. I left the main road as soon as I could and followed side roads to approach the coordinates which were my only guidance to the waterfall I hoped to find. As I rounded a curve steep hills appeared, cooperating with my music to inspire a fit of ecstasy. Riding with my arms out works well on US roads, but the washboard and potholes rudely interrupted my celebration. I crossed a river near the coordinates and asked directions from the youth washing his bike in the river. He sent me up a hill whose road surface was tortured by erosion. Even on a mountain bike it was technical.

All I found at the bottom of the hill was a doubly locked gate, so I asked a family carrying their luggage up the hill about the falls. They sent me back the way I came. Ravines, rocks, and four-inch-deep washboard is even more challenging to traverse downhill. Crashing was a very convenient option, but I refrained. I asked a guard at gate of a hydroelectric plant about the falls, and he said I could access it through there. Thirty minutes in the sun later a guy showed up and took me down to the plant. I oohed and ahhed at the equipment and finally was handed off to another guy who took me to the falls. Guides rob so much of the experience I tried to convince them I could go alone, but they insisted. We picked our way down the slippery mud slope, dodging the nettles that lined the path. The falls has eroded quite an overhang, curtained by the falls. Here I was able to release my guide (with 50 shillings for his pains) and enjoy the falls on my own. I sat for some time, drowning my thoughts in the roar of the falls. The river, swollen by the rains, drops a sheer 70 feet, creating a rainbow in the spray. With some regret I left the shelter cave and scrambled up some boulders back into the sun.

I decided to continue following the road though I wasn’t sure where it would take me, hoping perhaps to reach a tall hill which looked tantalizingly close. The road less travelled dwindled to a track with head-high bushes encroaching the borders. I persisted until some mamas standing outside their hut stopped me to chat, surprised to see a mzungu, especially alone. With what little Swahili I have access to I asked if the road would lead anywhere. They counselled me to turn back though but I didn’t catch whether it was for my safety or because the road was a dead end. I climbed out of the river valley and followed the ridge on a more established road until it too vanished into a steep boulder field strewn with head sized rocks. I navigated the slope far more effectively than a similar one at Mill Creek trails in Missouri, not even wrecking once. At the bottom my persistence was rewarded with a smooth singletrack, used by cattle and piki-pikis.

I followed ‘roads’ like this one for several hours: crossing rivers, through ridge-top pastures and shambas, and rolling through villages with every eye trained on me. The road turned back towards home, so I left the mountain for another day. It was still probably 15 km away and my legs were already cramping with 20 km or so between me home. I eventually came out on the main road, 10 km south of my house. 

The map showed a back way home, and I was happy for an option other than forty minutes of dodging matatus, pikis and lorries. The ‘back road’ turned out to be a track that led through a field (with cows and an abandoned bus), mud holes, a swamp, horrendous washboard...

...and back to the main road. 

At this point I was tired enough that riding on pavement was an attractive option so I followed the road back to town. The adventure had left my bike in a sorry state so I stopped at a car wash and cleaned it with a pressure washer. Before I reached home I passed a bike shop, and a fundi was more than happy to lubricate my chain for 20 shillings. His chain lube turned out to be used motor oil, so I wiped off what I could to keep it from accumulating dirt and causing more wear than it would prevent.

The Somali family on whose compound I live had a lot of people over for lunch. I greeted the men on the front porch sweaty, bleeding, and coated in mud. I must have made an impression because I was invited to join just after I finished showering. The food was delicious, and I got to meet the father, and uncle (from Toronto), two brothers, several friends (turned out to be farmers, fascinated by the bags we sell at Elite), and all their children. I ate my fill of goat, chicken, and chapatti, drank tea, and chatted with the brother who just finished med school. It was lovely, but by the time I took my leave I was quite ready for the coffee and relaxing that awaited.

At church the next morning I met Patrick and Whitney, who are here with Samaritans Purse. The invited me for supper, and I had a wonderful time playing ping-pong and chatting about the path to becoming a missions pilot. Their stories and pictures awakened my childhood obsessions with flight and ambitions to do just this. Patrick said the best way to get started is to find a couple guys to go in on a plane, and hire a good instructor.

Any takers?