A Duffer's Negligence

Riding a motorbike is a lot like playing a game of golf. You're outdoors, taking in the scenery, the sun's on your face and you're having fun. But like golf, sometimes you have your good days and sometimes you have your bad ones. It was on the road from Kasulu to Mpanda in Tanzania that Jerry was having a bad day. We'd already covered 250 miles on Tanzania's dusty dirt tracks without too much bother. But this road was different. Fesh-fesh, rocky terraces and deep sandy rutts.


It was the rutts that had Jerry's number. Like a particularly deep bunker, Jerry often found himself in the rutts, and when he did he found it difficult to get out. In the 150 mile stretch to Mpanda he dropped his bike 14 times – seven of which were in a sandy section not more than two miles apart. Par for the course was about three or four drops - at least that's how many times Tyson and I came off anyway.



When you get stuck in a mental funk, either playing golf or riding a bike, it's very difficult to pull yourself out. But Jerry shook off the yips and emerged from the road to Mpanda triumphantly - riding the last fifty miles at break neck pace. Despite falling multiple times, both he and Buffy (his bike) seemed unscathed. The same couldn’t be said for Tyson and I though. Tyson, who had gone on ahead to find water, had been forced off the road by an oncoming truck. That spill, or one of his others, resulted in a worryingly large hole in his fuel tank. So with gas pouring onto the ground at an alarming rate, he tore in to Mpanda to get a hasty weld.

As for me, I was riding in the rear gunner position. Riding at the back of the group is a nice place to be. You don’t have to wait around. You’ve always got a bike in front of you as entertainment (just in case the scenery gets dull), and you can muck about without putting the other guys off. But you’re also responsible for picking up anyone who falls over and for looking after yourself.

On a bumpy bit of fesh-fesh I stole a rearward glance at my left hand pannier – the metal rack which holds my case onto the bike had developed another crack and I thought it might have sheared. But taking my eye off the road was a bad move – like looking up in the middle of a golf swing. With my eye off the ball, my front wheel dug into the ground, twisting awkwardly and sending me crashing to the ground. On the way down my foot got caught under the pannier trapping my ankle underneath. I yelled out in pain but no-one was around to hear. I was riding at the back after all.

Fortunately it was only a sprain and I could still ride without too much discomfort. My bike suffered minor injuries too – a bent front fairing, wonky handlebars and a few more scratches to add to the growing collection. Together we limped in to Mpanda just as the sun was setting.

The following day, we did our best to service the bikes and get them back to roadworthy condition. It was late in the afternoon by the time we eventually got going. Despite our late start we had the ambitious goal of making it another 150 miles to Sumbawanga (whoever named the towns in western Tanzania had a sense of humour).

The ride out of town was a pleasant one. Smooth tracks lead us through Katavi National Park and for once I was leading. As I rounded a corner I saw a majestic sight – a lone giraffe standing by the side of the road. She looked at me curiously as I slowed down. Then as I edged closer she dashed into the trees camouflaging herself expertly. Seeing a giraffe run is quite a sight to behold – they gallop in slow motion as if their hooves barely touch the ground. Graceful.


We saw more giraffes as the warm red sun dipped slowly below the horizon. At dusk, we had the option to camp or push on a bit further and make up some miles. The lights on the KLR aren’t the best in the world and you’re always advised against riding at night in Africa. But we pushed on anyway as it was still a long way to Sumbawanga. We got a few miles before it got so dark that I needed to turn on my high beams. But as I flicked the switch all of my lights went out – a classic sign of a blown fuse. Fortunately Tyson was looking in his mirrors and circled back to help out. As we were replacing the fuse, a ranger pulled up to warn us that there were lions around. Our repairs gained a sense of urgency after that. Good thing we didn’t camp.

We pushed on for another 30 miles or so, Tyson and I riding side-by-side, his high-beams lighting the way. As we passed a wildfire we pulled over to wait for Jerry. Half an hour went by before we saw his headlight wobbling slowly towards us. Something was very wrong with his steering. Like an extreme version of the problem I had in Europe (a loose steering bearing). We decided to camp again that night (now safely out of lion territory) and diagnose the problem in the morning.

It was Jerry’s birthday when we woke up, but Buffy hadn’t got a present for him. Far from it. An initial inspection of her steering revealed nothing wrong until Tyson spotted an ominous crack in her frame. I’ve done a lot of research for this trip and read a lot about KLRs, but I’ve never heard of anyone cracking their frame before. This could be a trip ending incident. It’s still a bit of a mystery as to what caused the crack. Jerry hadn’t fallen that day, so the road to Mpanda must have been the culprit. One of his 14 spills must have weakened the frame causing it to slowly crack over the course of the day.


We rode slowly in to Sumbawanga to look for a mechanic. It was Sunday and we figured everything would be closed. But good fortune shone on us again. Not only did we find a mechanic, but we found a competent one. Within three hours he had completely stripped Jerry’s bike, welded the frame (which had cracked in two places – effectively splitting the bike in half) and put the whole thing back together. We decided to celebrate Jerry’s good fortune with a night on the town. But Jerry’s luck didn’t last for long.

The following day on the ride to Tunduma there was another mishap. The roads had gotten a little bumpy again and Jerry was concerned about his frame. So concerned in fact that he didn’t notice one of his panniers fall off. Tyson’s pannier had slipped off his bike three times on the same road but each time he had noticed quickly enough to circle round and pick it up. Everytime a local had already got the case in their hand. On one occasion a car even picked up the case and Tyson had to follow it for two miles before it would relinquish his luggage.

Jerry wasn’t so lucky. He didn’t notice his case was missing for 100km. And, since our cases look exactly like those that drug dealers might use to haul vast quantities of cash around, it’s almost certain that it has been prized open in some Tanzanian village.

There was a bit of cash in the case, but the real expense, and the reason that Jerry is now in Dar es Salaam rather than here with Tyson and I in Malawi, is because all his ID documents were in that case. There have been four occasions when Jerry thought he might have to end his trip early. None of us thought it would be paperwork that would be the final nail in the coffin.

But if you’re thinking that Jerry is the negligent duffer in this story then you’re mistaken. That unfortunate title falls to me. Jerry is well on his way to replacing all his documents and should be continuing south to the Cape before long. The journey on my bike has come to a more abrupt end however.

Since entering Malawi, Tyson and I have been soaring on the smooth blacktop travelling at highway speeds for the first time in a long time. The roads are in excellent condition and a nice reward after the trials of Tanzania.


It’s a harsh irony that in such idyllic riding conditions, my bike (The Odyssey) has finally stopped working. And it’s not her fault either, it’s entirely mine.

Bike maintenance is a crucial part of a trip like this. Everyday you check your tyre pressure and your engine oil. But over the past few days I’ve got sloppy with my maintenance. Too preoccupied with my front fork seal, which has been leaking oil since Sumbawanga, and my tyres (which got a puncture shortly after Tunduma) I forgot to check my engine oil. That’s a cardinal sin in the motorcycling world and one that I’ll pay for dearly. Oil is the lifeblood of the engine, and without it things can seize up pretty fast. In normal conditions a bike won’t use much oil and the only way it can get dangerously low is a leak, which is obvious by a thick tarry covering over the engine. But occasionally the engine can use up large quantities of oil unexpectedly. It was one of those unexpected occurrences that happened in Malawi.

Maybe it was because we were riding at over 80mph for the first time in ages. Maybe it was because we covered over 400 miles that day. Whatever the reason, the ride was taxing the engine and burning oil. 50 miles north of Lilongwe it finally conked out. First I thought it was a simple problem – like a worn out spark plug. But when Tyson circled back and asked me how the oil was doing I realised I hadn’t checked it. Glancing down at the oil gauge window, I saw nothing there. Even when the bike was fully tilted over there was no sign of the black stuff anywhere.

With my bike going nowhere, and Tyson’s electrical problems back, we both had to load our bikes onto a truck to take us the final 50 miles to Lilongwe. And that’s where we’ve been for the past few days. Tyson’s electrics are fixed, but unfortunately the problems with my bike are terminal. The lack of oil in the engine has damaged the camshaft and the cam-seat has worn out. That makes riding impossible, and with spare parts and tools thin on the ground out here, that means my bike will have to be trucked to the nearest Kawasaki dealer which is in Johannesburg. A sorry way for The Odyssey to finally come to an end – 17365km from London.



So what now for this silly duffer? Well. Tyson has kindly agreed to give me a lift to Johannesburg on his beloved bike - Rosa. Two-up is not the most fun way to travel, so we’ll be keeping a close look out for cheap local bikes. Maybe I’ll be able to snag myself a red devil, just like Claudio, the cameraman who wrote-off his bike on the Long Way Round. Either way, it certainly beats a bus.

Perhaps it’s a fitting way for Rosa to finish the journey as well. Tyson named her after La Poderosa (‘The Mighty One’) – the bike that Che Guevara and Alberto Granado rode two-up on their adventure in the Motorcycle Diaries. If she carries us all the way to Johannesburg she certainly will have earned her name.

African Wildlife II - Enchanting Uganda

After leaving the Brit-like sanctity of Kenya we crossed onto the manic roads of Uganda. Strewn with potholes big enough to tip lorries over, the Ugandan roads are some of the worst we’ve ridden on. Better not to have paved them at all than allow them to deteriorate in to such a patchy state.

Any normal driver treats a pothole in much the same way as a speedbump, slowing down carefully to gently roll over it. On a dirt bike it's a bit different. Ususally you gun the throttle and hope that gravity is feeling generous. If she is, then you'll soar over the top and land happily on the other side. If she's feeling mean, you'll receive a nutt-busting bump as penance for your bravado. But whether you're driving a car or riding a bike, the way to go over a pothole is straight. Or at least it should be. Not so in Uganda though. Most Ugandan drivers come from the homicidal school of motoring and prefer to brake harshly and swerve recklessly around potholes, sideswiping whoever might be in the other lane.

On one occasion I was following an articulated truck which suddenly slammed on its brakes and skidded to a halt. I just about crashed in to the back of it. Was there a child that had run out? A dog perhaps? Had a tree fallen over? No. There was a pothole and the driver was more concerned with his suspension than who might be following. If that were an isolated incident then it would hardly be worth mentioning here. But in Uganda, thanks to the insane minibus drivers, that sort of behaviour is the norm rather than the exception.

Fortunately the trials of the Ugandan roads were all worth it when we got to Mburo National Park. We arrived at night, as is usually the case, and there was a stretch of dirt road in front of us. But there was another more immediate challenge too. The headlight on Tyson’s bike was barely working - his electrical problems had returned yet again. But rather than camp near the road, our solution was to ride the 15 mile stretch to the lodge side-by-side with my headlight lighting the way for both of us. It was like a computer game - riding three feet off Tyson’s rear wheel - and like any computer game it had levels.

Level 1 – the ride to the lodge – was reasonably challenging on the rutted gravel, but Tyson and I managed to bump our way to the end without incident. Jerry on the other hand took a wrong turn, forcing us to go back to look for him and for Level 2. With the terrain now familiar we egged each other on to go faster, skidding round the corners and braking only for the occasional zebra crossing (that’s literally a zebra crossing the road). Having ridden all the way back to the park gates with no sign of Jerry, we turned back for Level 3. Even faster this time and standing up we nearly made it the entire way. Tyson did actually complete the game. But a slight twitch on my front wheel sent me sliding out on the final corner. I stopped the bike from skidding into the adjacent ditch, but because I was standing I failed to jump off in time to stop the bike from falling over. The bike toppled on to its side in a cartoonish slow motion fall. Gameover. Can I play again?

After the rangers had found Jerry, we pitched our tents on the shore of Lake Mburo, falling asleep to the sound of warthogs grunting outside our tents. The following morning we got up for a wildlife tour Team Canuk style. With our cameras dangling round our necks we rode through the park one-handed using the other hand to snap blurry pictures of zebra, impala and buffalo that would occasionally cross the road. We’d seen these animals just a few days before, but the experience was much more memorable on a bike. A motorcycle safari – how many people can say they’ve done that?



But the best was yet to come. Making our way further south in to the heart of Uganda the scenery turned from the mundane to the spectacular. Volcanic mountains jutted sharply in to the sky creating winding mountain roads around crisp blue lakes. Our destination was Kisoro and the Parc de Volcan – home of the gorillas in the mist.



It costs five hundred dollars to go gorilla tracking and only eight people are allowed to do it per day. You have to book months in advance to secure a place and even then double bookings can mean you don’t get to see the beautiful creatures at all. We had written off any hope of seeing the gorillas. We hadn't booked. Our calls earlier in the week had proved fruitless. But Tyson’s desire to see them – a childhood dream of his – was enough for us to go through the motions anyway. And what a good thing we did. Fortune shone on us and we managed to secure three places for the very next day. Unbelievable luck.

The mountain gorillas are found in the Impenetrable Forest – an area named for the endless shoots of bamboo that block your path. It’s a bit of a misnomer. Armed with a machete you can hack your way through it. But it’s an exhausting experience and one that makes finding the gorillas all the more rewarding.


The gorillas are visited everyday by the same guides and a different group of tourists. Usually there are eight tourists in each group, but in our group there were just four. Us three and an Australian pilot named Matt. More good luck.


If I were a gorilla that was visited by tourists everyday, I would occassionally want a day off. The gorillas seemed to be thinking the same thing, so they sent one of their number in one direction up the volcano while the rest of the group scarpered in the other. Our guides mistakenly followed the lone gorilla's track leading us on a six hour hike up Mount Gahinga.

By early afternoon, with only piles of gorilla dung and shoots of half eaten bamboo as encouragement, we were all starting to get a bit tired. But then, Matt turned around and passed on a message from the guide - 'they're up ahead' he said, 'we can smell them'. The thick ozzy accent could only be reminiscent of the late great Steve Irwin - a fitting character to be with us at such a time.

And sure enough, up ahead I caught my first glimpse of a black ball of fur rolling playfully down the hill. The guides were muttering their greeting call - a low nnnnnnnnn sound, which the gorillas interpreted as hello. Their response was a much deeper and slighty bored nnnnnnnnmm sound, as if to say 'not you again'.

There were eight gorillas in all. A couple of silverbacks, a few females and a baby. The mother with her baby only gave us a quick glance before heading off in to the thick brush, but the head Silverback - Big Mac - was more than happy to put on a show. Initially he was completely unbothered by our prescence, lying sleepily on his back, sunning his giant belly.


After a short while he got up. Obviously hungry, he wandered over to a shoot of bamboo and proceeded to pull down half the forest. Then he munched happily away, stripping vines with his teeth, occassionally giving us a glance to say, 'well, what are you looking at?'.


But Big Mac warmed to us and before long he was happily sitting just a few feet away. In fact, I think he liked the attention. All four of us were snapping pictures left, right and centre. Ever the showman, Big Mac got up from his spot about 8 metres away and wandered over to sit right in front of us. You're not supposed to get closer than 7 metres to the gorillas, but here was the biggest one of them all sitting just six feet away. Those intelligent orange eyes gleaming at us.


The hour we were allowed to spend with the beautiful beasts seemed to fly by in seconds. The experience was completely different from the safari in the Masai Mara. Much more engaging. The animals not only knew we were there, but they accepted us, and even looked upon us with interest. To answer my question from the previous blog - seeing the gorillas in the flesh was completely different from any image you see on TV. It's the proximity of the encounter. The connection you feel with the animals. Such a priveledge - I'd recommend it to anyone.

African Wildlife I - The Masai Mara

When you think of a trip across Africa, one of the first things that springs to mind is the animals. National Geographic, the Discovery Channel and the BBC have spoiled us with stunning images of some of the planet's most captivating creatures. But the question is - are those same beasts even better when you see them in the flesh?

Over the past couple of weeks I've had ample chance to answer that question. Since leaving Nairobi we've been on something of a wildlife tour, visiting four national parks and seeing too many animals for me to recount. Our first stop was the infamous Masai Mara National Park in southern Kenya.

Predictably we left Nairobi late and were still fifty miles away from the park by the time the sun set. Dusk coincided with the end of the tarmac, and so it was on a dark, dusty track that we rode through the Rift Valley to the gates of the Masai Mara. What a spectacular ride. Standing up on the pegs, kicking up huge clouds of dust behind us, watching our headlights reflect in the retinas of fleeing animals. Unforgettable.

It was well and truly dark by the time we got to the outskirts of the park and finding a campsite proved tricky. After riding around for half an hour we stumbled across one fenced off enclosure which looked promising. Three red cloaked owners soon appeared from the shadows to tell us that their campsite wasn't yet finished but we could still stay there if we wanted. Hungry, thirsty and keen to find some working facilities we decided to push on. But as we left, the owners warned us of the dangers of riding at night - 'there are elephants around' one of them said in a hushed whisper, so as not to be overheard. Elephants do have big ears after all.

We didn't encounter any elephants that night, but judging by the huge piles of dung in the middle of the path, they weren't far away. The following day proved more fruitful though.


Up with the dawn, we piled in to our rented land cruiser and made our way to the park (you're not allowed to ride motorbikes in the park - something about it being too dangerous). Our visit was well timed, coinciding with the wildebeast migration. In such a time of plenty the wildlife was abundant. We saw dozens of different animals in just a few short hours. I wont list them all, I cant remember most of them, so I'll just write about my favourites instead - the elephants, the lions and the cheetah.

We saw the elephants first or rather our guides did. I took rather longer to distinguish the elephants from the elephant shaped bushes that dotted the savannah. But by the time we were twenty feet away the distinction was obvious even to me. Such gentle giants roaming the savannah, guarding their young and eating pound after pound of grass. They looked curiously at us while munching away. Their wrinkled skin giving them a hundred different expressions. Captivating.


Next was the cheetah. He was on his own, slowly meandering his way after some zebra. He looked full and in no hurry to catch them up. Instead he just sat among the golden grass, in a house-cat pose, surveying the meals in front of him. A proud animal.


Then came the lions. We found a pack of them near a recent kill, sleeping in the shade. Theirs was the easiest life of all. Sleeping for most of the day, occasionally wandering over to a watering hole for a drink, then back to the bushes for another cat nap.



Like most of the animals, the lions were unfazed by our presence. Many of them barely gave us a second glance. Perhaps because of that - the lack of interaction - the experience didn't feel all that different from going to the zoo. There was still a cage after all (the land cruiser) only this time we were in it. My doctor friends will disagree with me of course. Biologists for the last two decades they were thrilled by the whole experience and will fall over themselves to tell you about it. As for me, I certainly enjoyed the safari. Seeing the animals in the flesh did add something - the smell of rotting carcasses, the sound of trumpeting elephants and growling lions. But the sights I had seen before, better even, thanks to the film crews that come every year to capture them.

I’m glad I went on safari, it gives you a renewed respect for the stunning images that the film crews capture. Although I don’t have the patience to be a wildlife photographer myself, I’ll always enjoy watching the work of those who do.

Ethiopia/Kenya - Food, Dubious Food

Sampling the local cuisine is an integral part of travelling. It's also a necessity when travelling by bike as it's hard to carry enough supplies for a single day let alone three months. But with the local 'delicacies' come side effects. We've all had GI issues on this trip (that's Gastro-Intestinal issues to anyone who hasn't spent the last couple of months with doctors, or tummy trouble to everyone else). Since leaving Turkey our bowels have developed a bipolar disorder flipping between a dammed state and one of uncontrollable flooding. Anyone who has ever accidentally taken four immodium will know that the dammed state is uncomfortable, but manageable. It's when the dam bursts that you run in to trouble. In that situation it's not uncommon for one of us to yell 'campo' at the others - our code word for telling the other two to carry on ahead while business is taken care of in the nearest bush.

Of the three of us, I've probably got the weakest stomach. No doubt caused by my unadventurous diet back home. I'm a typical Englishman and I like my food bland. Those who know me well know that it's quite normal for me to have the same meal day-in day-out for a week or more. But tuna sandwiches, cornflakes and my mum's roast dinner are thin on the ground out here, so I've had to make do. Thankfully the dambusting days have been relatively few and have usually come when we're held up in hotels. But that's not always been the case. Sometimes they occur at the worst possible time.

On the ride out of Addis Ababa, I was feeling a bit peaky. That condition wasn't helped by the choking traffic. In Ethiopia, petrol is scarce so diesel is the fuel of choice. Not normal diesel though. Ethiopian diesel is laced with a special mixture of toxins which cause even the newest cars to spew out thick black smoke. Sitting behind slow moving trucks is particularly noxious and encourages you to overtake. But overtaking in Ethiopia can be very dangerous - as Tyson found out.

Tyson was pulling past a particularly slow moving diesel tanker on the outskirts of Addis when a dog rushed out. With his view obscured by the tanker, Tyson only saw the dog at the last minute. He had no time to react and hit it head on. The impact sent Rosa's front wheel high up in the air and the dog twisting awkwardly underneath. Rosa came down hard on her right hand side, pinning Tyson's leg against the ground. Looking back towards us with his face grimaced in pain, Tyson and his bike ground to a halt just a few feet from some railway tracks. By the time I'd pulled over and got to Tyson, the dog was gone. Presumably crawled off to die in a ditch.

Seeing Tyson sitting up and Rosa on her side with the engine still roaring, I rushed over, hit the kill switch and dragged the bike to the side of the road. Jerry was checking Tyson over. He was standing, clutching his arm and hip. He had some nasty road rash but he'd live. That was all the information I needed. With precious seconds before the dambusters rolled in, I dashed off into the scrubland, yelling 'campo' over my shoulder.


With business taken care of, I returned to find Tyson in a distant state. This wasn't our first crash in Ethiopia. Far from it. I'd come off my bike barely half an hour earlier by crashing in to a sewage pipe laying in the middle of the road. But this one was different. This one was unavoidable. You could argue that we shouldn't have been overtaking. But on any other road in any other country that manoeuvre would have been completely standard. It's only in Ethiopia that such standard moves result in accidents.

Of all the countries I've ridden my bike through, Ethiopia has the most dangerous roads by far. And that's not because the road quality is particularly poor either. For the most part, the roads are actually quite good - smooth tarmac, recently paved and paid for by the Japanese finance ministry. (That explains the prevalence of Japanese cars anyway - in Ethiopia the car in front is always a Toyota). The real danger comes from the traffic, be it: human, donkey, goat, dog, horse, cow, cart, truck, or badly ridden bicycle. Regardless of who or what is on the road, none are traffic savvy and all can jump out in front of you.

We were only in Ethiopia for ten days, yet in that brief time I saw a child and a dog run over. And that was just the accidents I witnessed firsthand. There were signs of countless other incidents on the road. Donkeys, dogs, cows, even horses lying dead with their legs in the air struck stiff by rigor mortis. The animal traffic is heavy in Ethiopia but it's not unique. You encounter similar conditions in other countries - Mexico, Romania, Syria to name a few. What makes the roads particularly hazardous is the people. I cant tell you the number of times I had to slam on my brakes to avoid someone who didn't look before crossing the road. Looking both ways seems so natural to us. The highway code is drilled in to us when we're children. But that education - like so many things in Ethiopia - is lacking. I shudder to think of the number of traffic fatalities in the country every year.

With resources spread so thinly there is precious little for people to do. The kids are particularly bored. Many of them amuse themselves by waving at passers by. Those are the sweethearts. Others - the beggars - rush to the side of the road to yell 'money, money, money, money, money' in the vain hope that people will slam on their brakes and heap riches on them. Then there are the buggers. They entertain themselves by pelting passers-by with rocks. We managed to avoid being stoned in Ethiopia by waving at all the kids. A simple wave was enough to confuse the rock throwers just long enough for us to escape. But other travellers weren't so lucky. One German cyclist - Adrian - was heavily pelted as he rode his bicycle up the steep mountain roads. Rather than get angry he got even. His response was to calmly pick up a goat and cycle with it for 10km. A goat is worth a lot of money in Ethiopia. So after 10km of running after a bicycle you can bet that kid wont be throwing stones any time soon. You might think such a response is uncalled for. After all the kids don't know any better so why punish them? Maybe so. But you've clearly never had a rock thrown at you for no reason. Never experienced the blood curdling rage that overcomes you. Adrian's response was witty and measured. I cant say I would have been so level headed.

With one eye always on the road and the other watching the erratic children, we had precious little time to take in the scenery. When we did steal a glance, we saw the true beauty of Ethiopia. The undulating mountains covered in lush vegetation. Peaks shrouded in cloud. It reminded me of the Scottish highlands.



Could this rich fertile land really be the same country that experiences mass famine? So much potential for agriculture yet no sign of industry. Only subsistence farming. Maybe it was because we visited during the wet season when the country was at its most verdant. But maybe not. When we asked the locals for an explanation of the backward state of the country, they pinned the blame on two things - 'bad government' and 'lazy people'. No-one mentioned the weather.

I cant say whether the people are lazy or not. The back breaking hours spent farming the fields and herding animals certainly didn't strike of laziness. But I cant say I was particularly endeared by the Ethiopian people either. There were exceptions of course. Friendly people, like David who welcomed us in at the Ethiopian border in Metema. He gave us an excellent meal and handed us our first beers since Egypt. But more often than not the locals were an irritation. Interfering with our bikes when we tried to repair them, or trying to scam us whenever we bought something. It got quite tiresome after a while, so by the time we reached the border we were all looking forward to a new country.

Kenya has been the change we were looking for. The locals are still curious about our journey, and some still try to charge us farangi (foreign) prices. But it's a different world. The British colonial influence is strong. Cars drive on the left, tea is universally available, football dominates conversation and the logos of Man United and Arsenal are emblazened everywhere - even on the walls of corrugated shacks in remote tribal villages. British road signs, road names, land rovers, pubs, electrical sockets, supermarkets, post offices, Cadbury's chocolate, cornflakes and Ribena. Kenya is like a home from home right in the wild heart of Africa.

This spectacular country has some of the most thrilling roads I've ridden. Not because they're beautifully paved. Quite the opposite in fact. The stretch from Moyale (at the Ethiopian border) to Isiolo is 350 miles of rocky, sandy, dusty terrain that tests your metal and your bike. On this road the Long Way Down boys busted two shock absorbers. Our shocks remained intact, but by the time we rattled and bounced our way to Nairobi, Tyson's bike would only start if we pushed it, my fork oil had leaked, all our bikes had electrical problems and we were in desperate need of a welder. But bush camping in the middle of the rocky desert, amongst the scorpions, spiders and stars was truly blissful. The taste of adventure we all love. The trip we'd all hoped for.



Now in Nairobi, the milestones are passing by fast. We're over two months in to our trip, we've crossed the equator, and we've covered 15,000 kilometres. Also, thanks to the availability of western food, some semblance of normaly has returned to our bowels. Thank you Kenya.