Foul, falafel and fuel.
My introduction to the Sudan was a smiling Mazar standing behind the big gate separating the country from no-man’s land. The gap from Egypt into Sudan was teeming with trucks waiting for the gate to be opened at the end of prayers and a well needed lunch break.

Mazar waving and joined in with the ribbing I was receiving from all the truck drivers complementing and critiquing my bike and asking how I was surviving, clad as I was in my motorbike gear in the ceaseless heat.

This welcoming was from one of the most effective and well-known fixers I’ve ever come across. The man who helped Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman across the very same border crossing years earlier had me into the county in minutes for an entirely reasonable price.

The dramas of Egypt finally felt behind me as I settled down to a quick coffee and a chat after clearing the final gate. By this point I was hopeful that I’d come across Guy who had crossed at some point in the previous few days. He is another rider who I’d been pestering with questions for weeks as he had dealt with all the border crossings ahead of me.


What words are needed
Rather than waste the fading light I headed off for the 150-odd km to Abri where we had made tentative plans to meet. It amazed me now, as it would for the remainder of the trip, that Africa is developing at a rate of knots. This route down the Nile used to be a stretch of badly corrugated dirt that caused the first issue for the Long Way Down crew as they passed through.

The change could not be starker if it tried. The road I headed along was top notch bitumen and one of the most consistent and smooth roads I’ve ever driven on. Peace and quiet for hundreds of kilometers was a rare treat and I was elated as I wondered whether I’d head off into the dunes to pitch camp for the night or go off in search of Guy. Settling on the pre-agreed plans I reached Abri and headed to the only possible guest-house in the town.

Having set up my tent and headed down to sit beside the river and watched the river taxi’s plying their route. Slightly alarmingly, standing sentry over the doorway for the hostel was a very well preserved and quite substantial open jaws of the proverbial Nile Crocodile. I had asked the host whether it was safe to swim and was assured that it was. But having such evidence of the proximity of the big beasts had me quite unwilling to risk it.

Unbeknown to me Guy had snuck up, his bike as quiet as a whisper and was parked out the front of the hostel attempting to call the phone number listed on the door. The first fellow motorbike traveller I had come across on my trip I was a delighted by the prospect of some company. It felt particularly appropriate as I’d finally arrived at the beginning of real Africa, it was slightly reassuring not hitting it solo.

The modern age has made traveling an entirely different experience than it was for the likes of Ted Simon or Elspeth Beard in the ‘70s and ‘80s. There are few moments when you are really disconnected and to this point I had hardly missed a night where I couldn’t communicate with the friends waiting at home. Part of me is envious of the disconnect, something I would experience for the first real time later in the trip.

Having moved Guy into the lodge courtyard we caught up on the dramas of the past few days and discovered that I had ridden straight passed the man stranded as his bikes fuel pump gave one of its many regular hissy fits. At least this time he knew what the problem was having been stuck in South America due to a similar fault. Never the less he assured me that his trusty BMW was nothing short of reliable. Do you still hold that belief Guy?

Abri offers access to an Island that features several ancient ruins and quite an impressive view off the peak of a mountain in its direct centre. The gate keeper for the guest house assured us that the ferry was just a few kilometres out of town marked by a sign. At the point we were confident was the turn off we headed along a smooth piece of tar which simply and abruptly ended at the start of the fertile lush lands skirting the Nile banks.

Unadjusted to the need to look beyond the road we turned tail and continued along the river in search of the mystical ferry having not come across the sign.

The search for ferry’s was an activity that would begin to consume a great deal of our time in the coming week. Our first attempt was a river taxi who attempted to assure us that we could load the bikes into his 4-foot-wide timber raft to cross. Neither inspired nor full of confidence we called and conferred with the gate keeper who told us that the ferry in question was indeed “kabir”, which means big in Arabic.

We returned to our smooth but dead ended tar road to discover a sign facing away from the direction we had first come which stated simply and eloquently that there was a ferry by the road. Slightly bemused we found the trail leading off perpendicularly from the nice dead end we had found an hour before.

With the ferry started by a sandal clad foot pinning a fraying cable to a battery’s terminals and a resulting shower of sparks throughout the engine bay it was an exceptionally cool and relaxing boat ride across onto Sai island where we took off in search of a few lonely planet recommendations. These included an impressive old fort overlooking the surrounding desert, an ancient old church and some ancient Egyptian ruins. From here we aimed up the rock in the centre of the island and a short while later crested the top under what appeared to be an old military outpost. A 360-degree view out over the Nile and off into the desert beyond. While there I noticed a man, wandering alone across the cauldron of dust and sand below us.


Batting flies from our eyes we took to posing.

We found it eventually.

The breeze coming off the river was one of the coolest moments in the whole time in the Sudan.


Our rickety old ferry.

Top of the big old rock

Old ruins


It was a long way down.....

I adore these old doors.

Off into the distance our ticket man was wandering across the plain.

Turning tail, we headed down the mountain and back towards the ferry to return to the lodgings for the evening only to be intercepted by the fellow we had spotted wandering across the desert. Lonely planet had informed us of a fee for visiting the island which supports the local community, so we paid up without complaint before being flabbergasted as he removed a Bluetooth printer from his briefcase and from his phone printed off a ticket for our visit.

I have never been so utterly amused and it really hit home on me that no matter how far I wander the world really is so much smaller than it used to be. Here in Sudan, several thousand kilometres from Khartoum in the northern desert I rarely had poor cell service while at home some 45km from Melbourne I could barely connect.

****

To start the day we arranged a water taxi for a stint up the river to a little known archaeological site north of Abri. The site is the capital of Kush, the old Nubian capital in the region. Once a thriving walled city it is not consumed by the dunes. Currently, the British Museum is undertaking continual work at the site including the establishment of an information center. While there we ran into the most stereotypical archaeological types. Scarves, hats and glasses as they dragged the parts of the temples across the desert to take it back home with them. To top it off, one of the guys names was Niall......


The British Museum were present - removing sections of the temple to take home.


First time I've ever seen a functioning archaeological dig.

The next morning saw us head south searching for yet another mystical ferry across the Nile and petrol so that we could head to Soleb Temple. Kilometres ticked away as we gradually headed far further south than where the temple stood on the opposite bank. We cut across into towns looking for both and left stumped time and time again.

At one point I saw a donkey sitting atop a rise through the middle of a town and thinking that there might just be a raised road I shot up the side to try and see whether I’d found the route to our ferry. Yet just a moment later I disappeared as I plummeted down a near vertical drop into a drain. Whether it was built for irrigation or the once in a millennium floods I’ve no idea, but I managed to keep the bike upright and stood there shaking my head, looking up at the donkey on the other edge.


Stayed on it and upright on the way down.

Up and out, these bikes amaze me
I’m not a technical trails rider by any means and this was my first real experience learning just how much the humble motorcycle is capable off. With the minimum of fuss, most stress completely unnecessary I popped up and over the lip back into the rest of the world.

Fuel was a persistent problem, having stopped at a petrol station that seemed like it could operate, we were pointed off into the desert and told that there would definitely be petrol out there.... True enough we managed to get our hands on a few litres in the Mad Max, gold rush style mining town near Wawa.


AKs not pictures but I was glad to be here with a friend. Needless to say, we didn't dither for long.
By this point the day was drawing to a close, so just north of Delgo we ducked off the road and tucked ourselves away in the rocky dunes. An attempt to find wood for a fire culminated in the regions only thorned bush being dragged back to camp and then pruned in an effort to crush its straggly branches close enough to burn. Didn't work though did it.


First time I dropped the bike....

We attempted to find enough wood for a fire.

Success!

The next morning we arrived at the Delgo ferry terminus just in time to hear the most amazing call to prayer I've ever experienced. From his road side tent the Imam called the Adhan with his hands cupped around his lips to increase its volume. A short time later we were across the ferry and headed back north in search of Soleb Temple.

Refusing to take the major highway up the east side of the Nile we stuck as close as we could to the river and wound our way up. Through small villages and sandy roads we found petrol, food and dealt with the loose battery terminals on Guys BMW that had him stuttering to a halt on the corrugations.


Are you sure that's 5 liters mate?
Despite aspiring to make it to Soleb that day we settled for a nights camping. The dunes had opened up making being subtle more challenging. Having tried to hide and succeeded only in sinking the Dr up to the bash plate in sand I took the bags off and settled down closer to the opening before dragging the bike out of the sand. Wrecked from the exercise I resolved not to bother with the tent. What a quality nights sleep under the stars.


Who needs a tent?
In need of a little wash the following morning, both of our pots and pans and our bodies we headed to the river for a moments respite. As with everywhere on the trip a short time later we were seated in the house of a local man for a cup of tea while he called a friend of his who was an English teacher to translate. Despite pleas to stay the night we committed to getting to Soleb and headed off a short while later. Up the road we arrived at the ruins of the temple by which point my brain had been melted by the sun and I stumbled around in a dazed shock, loving the place for the shade it offered more than anything else. It was built by a Pharaoh in memory of his wife. God knows what she did to deserve her own Temple in such a remote corner of the empire.


Dishes and then tea

Some bizarre old ruins besides the road.

Made it to Soleb and I was almost too fried to really enjoy it.


Enjoying the shade of one of the restored pillars.
As you can see there isn't much original remaining of the temple with much of it recreated by way of mud brick to support those bits that could be identified and pieced together. I was glad to have made it and the prospect of a shower had us hightailing it down to Dongola. Having heard the place described as a city the town we stumbled across was all the more amusing. This was one of the few times iOverlander failed us as the much recommended hotel was all booked out. For less than 2 dollars a piece we found ourselves a guest house that was definitely the most strung out accommodation I experienced on my whole trip. Having decided to stay the following night we relocated, the beds, dust, questionable parking and awful showers getting to us. The need to fix Guys bike had us stay the extra day and I will admit to having enjoyed the relax.


I helped, I promise.

Cool old characters
From Dongola we headed across the first bridge over the Nile and aimed for the Kawa temple. Fully loaded bikes and a rutted and sandy track between barbed wire fences had us abandon our attempt at making it as every time we dropped the bike we had to try not hang ourselves up on the rusted razor sharp wire.

Full of wisdom we picked the route following the Nile, again on the opposite side of the river from the major route to Khartoum. If we thought we had found a road that ended suddenly near Abri the dead straight road through the desert ended abruptly at the base of a dune. An unsuccessful attempt at riding the dunes resulted in Guy stuck and an extraordinary effort to free him from the grip of the sand. From there we headed back onto the main road you can vaguely see in the background and headed as close to the Nile that we could get in order to pick up the route between the villages.


Just below 40 degrees in full riding kit anyone?
What followed was one of the most lovely nights of the trip as we arrived next to a small settlement where the track we had been following petered into oblivion. This was one of the only times on my whole trip that I wild camped openly near a village. The costs became apparent in dealing with the small children in the area but with the dignity and respect of Islam present we had nothing to worry about beyond some cheeky youths.


Children everywhere

Attentive and curious children

We survived! After the kids left us to our own devices.


The curious but scared children

Coffee and tea after a hard days exploring?

Breakfast - words are unnecessary. The hospitality is amazing.


Having been fed dinner and then breakfast the following day Guy went in search of a guide to lead us through the dunes and hopefully tout the luggage leaving us a little more free to enjoy the dune riding, rather than just struggle. A short while later we had a trusty Hilux loaded up and we began negotiating the dunes. Unencumbered the freedom was delightful. So much so that Guy attempted to mimic Evil Kenievel as he launched his bike off the top of a dune some way off to the right of our guide and I. Having seen him disappear I slowed and eventually the guide stopped wandering where my friend had disappeared too. Thus we headed off in search to find him perusing the damage. Having stuck the landing without any broken bones the bike seemed rather intact. So we committed and headed south to our ferry to the good road in Mulwad. With me tailing at the rear we rode across a spectacular patch of corrugations. With the rear tire hammering up into the wheel arch the BMW unceremoniously dumped a heap of plastic components out the back of the bike, showering me in shards. I stopped to collect the parts and eventually the intrepid adventurers returned to find me clutching pieces that "surely" couldn't have been from his bike. The BMW logo printed on one of the shards was fairly clear as I dont imagine too many BMW's ply this route.


I can only imagine what was being said on that phone call.....
With little more drama we made it to the ferry and bade our guide a good day. Waiting for the ferry under a palm Guy attempted to teach some cheeky local boys how to count to 10 before we were joined by a local police man and his friends for a laugh.


I think I was a little slovenly for the Islamic temperament
From here we had a little jaunt down the main road towards Old Dongola some impressive conical temples and a spectacular camp in the bowl of some rocky dunes. Sadly I appear to have lost some of my pictures from this point but I'd describe the place as being very similar to Tatooine in Star Wars. What the pictures below do not reveal is just how steep nor tall the dune we are sitting a top is. It could barely be climbed.


Not quite the Great Sand Sea, more the Great Slag heap.

Too slow....

What a view.


Its nice having a cameraman.
Rather than head towards Khartoum along the desert shortcut highway route we stuck with the much loved Nile up to Karima and the epic collection of Nubian Pyramids. Having been spoilt by Egyptian ruins the tombs south of the town at El Kurra are still a sight to be seen but a little underwhelming for the price they're charging. The highlight was the archaeologist who let us down into a tomb that was in the process of having some stairs put in to protect the original steps. What didn't fail to impress were the pyramids at the base of Jebel Barkal and the scattered remains across the river at Nuri.


PYRAMIDS

Exercise on a Pyramid anyone?

The temple of Amun at the base of Jebel Barkal


Huge slab of engraved stone so hot I could have fried breakfast on it.

In a bad state of repair the Nuri pyramids are some of the biggest in country.

Jebel Barkal rising behind me


Posing with the temple...
Having camped in the dunes the other side the of the road we went wandering around them before breakfast while local footballer was using one for exercise doing step ups on the bottom tiers of the structure.

Another night in the dunes before Atbara had us closing in on Khartoum. During a lunch stop we made the decision to push on towards the pyramids at Meroe and the temple complex at Naga. Atbara also offered up our first actual, legitimate, real petrol station in the couple of thousand km since Egypt! We stopped before it and discussed whether we would bother to check it and when we pulled up and asked if they had petrol we received the most bemused 'of course' look I've ever been given.


The pyramids were attacked by a crazy Italian who thought they contained treasure


Goats


Beautiful.

I was feeling as frazzled as I looked.

One more without me ruining it.


A pano of the area.
The pyramids at Meroe are one of the largest complexes in the country. Attacked by an Italian in the 1930's who believed they were full of treasure the tops of many of the pyramids removed. You see them from the main road in the background and pull off towards the complex. It was getting dark and we were in search of a camp site for the night. While searching for an ideal spot I saw a tail light disappear around a dune. A motorbike rider! I chased after the rider looking to make friends only to find two. The Barnecut's were riding north from Cape Town aiming for Cairo. I almost felt guilty as I tore off to the camping spot while Katelyn paddled along through the sand behind me being pushed by two camaliers. A lovely couple from the States the company was delightful and the camp site was truly spectacular. Unwilling to pay the entry fee I climbed the mountain behind the Pyramids and took my shots from there.

The next stop we headed off road towards the Naga (Naqa on some maps) temple complex. One of the most substantial and well preserved in the country it was an awesome experience. With Guys bike continually kicking itself into limp mode he was ride, switching it off and restarting repeatedly as we crossed the corrugated and sandy roads. A mechanical pit-stop revealed loose battery terminals again. Always check the simple things!


Pit-stop in the 'shade;


Beautiful.


The view from the ruins of one temple, no wonder they were built here.

Temple of Amun

Beautiful carvings.


Bits of pillars and full pillars.

Even camels need shade.
Tip for the Sudan - offer to pay entry fee's in the local Sudanese Pounds rather than USD.

From here we committed to the final crazy ride into Khartoum. Ridiculous traffic, a ride that went into the night we arrived at the Youth Hostel in Khartoum to discover several other riders there. A nearby pizza and then a much needed nights sleep.

In the end I spent 5 days hanging out with the handful of riders in Khartoum. Servicing the motorbikes, attempting to find ways to repair that which could not be replaced, riding through city for Mango smoothies in the Omdurman souq and joining in for a day with the Sudan Bikers club as we rode out to a fish restaurant en masse.

From Khartoum I was on a mission to get to Ethiopia. The time ticking away on the visa and a lot of kilometers to cover I camped by the side of the Nile some 200 km south of Khartoum and was at the border early in the afternoon of the following day.

Leaving Sudan is a fairly straight forward process. First go to the police station, on the right as you come into town and get your departure recorded by the police. Then proceed to immigration's just down the road towards the border who will have you stamped out in a jiffy. After that, if you're with your own vehicle the customs compound is always busy but head inside and ask for a carnet stamp and someone will appear. No fee's incurred during my departure. One last passport check at the boom gate and you'll be allowed to cross the bridge over the riverbed and then itll be time for Ethiopian border procedures!

__________________
jordanwandersaround.com

Sticks and stones may break my bones, Ethiopia tried to hurt me.
The border procedures entering Ethiopia were refreshing in that I could do them myself. There was no need to waste money hiring someone else to satisfy the countries bureaucratic requirements as for the first time the procedures and requirements were quite simple and transparent. After crossing the bridge from Sudan you find yourself in a small compound. Immigration is on the right and customs up on the left. I has acquired my Ethiopian visa at the embassy in Khartoum. The process was fairly painless, requiring little effort and a bit of time.

I'll include that information on my Ethiopia travel page - just follow the link above to go there for an overview of travel in Ethiopia rather than reading about my adventures below.

The town beyond the boom gate was a stark contrast to the country I'd just stepped from. Barren, rusted shacks and tarp covered huts on the Sudanese side were immediately replaced by a similarly eclectic variety of buildings but the people were completely different. Lighter skin tones, people kissing in the streets and so much skin in comparison to where I'd spent so much time in the preceding months.

Gondar:
I slightly regret not spending a night in Metema as choosing to push on towards Gondar had me riding the last leg in the dark and I prevented me from enjoying my first taste of the country.

The road to Gondar climbs and climbs and climbs into lush cool air after the unrelenting heat of the Sudan. Suddenly I was in a world of green, fertile lands and a myriad of animals all over the road.

Cows: stubborn and slow moving you'll learn to read them from afar and intuitively known when they will start to trundle on the road and when they'll continue munching away at the grass where they are.

Donkeys: one level more annoying than cows as they're slightly more likely to step out on you at the last minute. Completely and blissfully unaware of the terror they place themselves in. They're also the most likely creature to find lying in the middle of the road or anywhere else they so please. Approach cautiously but generally you'll get passed without further problems.

Goats: sitting in the furthest reaches of the frustration spectrum, goats will likely run towards you in an attempt to kill themselves as you approach. Do so with caution. They're erratic and almost never stay anywhere near where they were when you first clocked them.

Aside from adjusting to the teeming number of animals on the road, people walk wherever they please. Little regard is felt for cars and you must be so careful. Particularly if you find yourself driving at night. People will materialise out of the dark meters in front of you.

The road to Gondar was truly beautiful. Stopping for picture opportunities was limited as I rushed to make it before dark.

Johannes's Guesthouse is an ideal spot in town for Overlanders and backpackers alike. Room for camping for a few dollars, nice rooms for a little more plus secure camping make it ideal. Even though it is a little challenging to find. If you're headed down a cobblestone road after a right turn, one more right up a dirt track will place you in front of a big unsigned rolling metal gate. Bang on it a bit and you'll be welcomed inside. The man himself is a character. But in the end, I stayed two nights the first day addressing a few mechanical issues on the bike like a seized pilot screw on my carburetor and a failed attempt at finding some motorbike appropriate oil.

Hard work complete I took to the streets and the bars listening to music and otherwise enjoying myself. I ate my first mouthfuls of Ethiopian injera and shiro. I discovered I was here during the longest period of fasting that the country endures. A whole month without meat that meant the delicious Tibs was off-limit's for the duration of my stay. In the end I did manage to find it and got to partake in the end of the fasting period on my last night in Addis. Fir-fir is another popular one with the injera leftovers stirfriend with popular spices and tomatoes and then, you guessed it, eaten on top of more Injera.

I also ventured out to the castle in the center of the village that demonstrates the history of this great country. It's bizarre to think of European-esque castles in Africa, yet here they are.


Castle in Ethiopia anyone?

Castle in Gondar Ethiopia

Me and Castle in Gondar Ethiopia


Other ruins in Gondar Ethiopia at the site of the old bath.

One of my favourite views of the Castles

One last view anyone?


Ethiopian Kitten
Bahir Dar:
From here I headed south-east around Lake Tana to exploring the town of Bahir Dar and have my first close call with local drivers. Bahir Dar is in the southern end of Lake and despite being the regional capital it has little else to offer. The Blue Nile falls would be particularly impressive but for the dam that has cut off its water supply and turned a kilometer long torrent into a 10m wide trickle.

Getting there is a chore either requiring patients on the slow bumpy road, arranging a driver in Bahir Dar or taking a tour from the town down. The walk around is nice, refreshing and a lovely chance to stretch my legs with a cute like ferry ride that you can take at the beginning or the end to make a complete loop. There is also a campsite above the falls that comes highly recommended but there is no secure parking for your vehicle at the site so you have to leave it by the gate. For backpackers it would likely be the perfect spot to stay in the area.

Back along the same bumpy awful road into Bahir Dar I decided to attempt to circumnavigate the lake. The maps I had didn't indicate a road around it but maps.me had a track go half way and another little tail at the other end. Presuming they must be attached I set off in search of a place to camp with the backup of knowing off a small Overlander's camp on the North side of the lake.


Blue Nile Waterfalls during the dry season

To the east of Lake Tana

An island of fishermen just off from Tim and Kim's Village

At Bahir Dar the lake is a little scummy, not overly pretty. Further around with less people and pollution its much more beautiful. The rough rocky road winds its way through the hills to the lakes east and brings you close only occasionally. Its farming land here, people are everywhere and there is no where I feel comfortable attempting to set up camp.

The ride drags on a little but finally I pick up the beautiful piece of tar that has been recently finished to head to Kim and Tim's Village. A beautiful little eco resort offering cheap as chips camping, lovely dinners and beautifully finished huts for very reasonable prices. I was almost tempted to treat myself. And that doesn't happen often. For two or three days I relaxed by the side of the lake and consumed my weight in literature.

The Bradt guide for the country struck me as the best travel guide I've ever come across. They're detailed in offering solutions from shoestring to flash packing and beyond.

Simien Mountains:
From here I headed north to the town of Debark which provided access to the Simien Mountains. Boasting beautiful scenery and offering up the tallest peaks and highest roads on the continent I wanted to explore. For many, tours will be the only opportunity you'll get to enter. This has the positive of allowing you to only pay a fraction of several fees that cannot be avoided like the obligatory security guard and give you the transportation options that are otherwise impossible to find. I met a few people that hiked from the town all the way in and then back but the first day or two of walking is spent just getting there and not actually in the depths of the park.

I wanted to ride my bike in, so I could summit a 4200 odd meter pass near the peak of the second highest summit in the park. This however came with a price. I was obliged to take my very own Kalashnikov toting security guard into the park. To add insult to injury the government had unilaterally increased the prices they could charge putting my one night adventure into the expensive category. However I have no regrets for the experience was well worth it.

Jokingly I asked the park manager to find me a small security guard which Ill admit I did actually get and left most of my luggage at the Walya Lodge run by Andreas. He is great man who loves his country and has a great passion for its tourist industry. He was some of the best company I had and I hope he is well.

From the town I headed up the mountain road and soon left the tar behind. A quick permit check at the gate had me hauling ass up into the mountains with an assault rifle visible in my mirror.

I camped the night at Chenneck camp having ridden up the pass and climbed the mountain before returning to just a little below 4000m. It was a pretty fresh old evening and was probably one of the coldest nights of the trip. At least I had all my gear. I met a brilliant and crazy Norwegian named Teresie who had cycled north from Cape Town. Desperate to loose weight on her bicycle she had left her sleeping bag behind long ago and survived the night wrapped in a blanket and survival sheet. Taking masochism to a whole never level with that degree of commitment.

I met a motley collection of cyclists during my trip. The vulnerability, hard work and minimalism never appealed to me. Mad respect to those that can manage it though.

Driving the same track back out of the park the following morning had me struggling. The harder direction is definitely going back with challenging rocky uphill sections requiring considerable effort rather than just rolling down in first on the brakes.


Bwahit

Another angle

Chenneck Camp Simien Mountains Ethiopia


Proud and in control

Running Scared

Monkeys or Baboons?


Walia Ibex

Arty enough?

Enjoy


Enjoy some more

The pass up Mount Bwahit

I was knackered - climbing to that altitude with no prep


Top of Bwahit Simien Mountains Ethiopia

Proof that I climbed as high as I said I did

I have proof of the altitude!


Near Chenneck in the Simien Mountains

Top of Africa

Yet another angle


Walya Lodge and a bed....

Gelada Monkeys
Aksum:
One more night at Walya Lodge before I aimed for Axum the historical capital of the Aksumite empire that stretched far north and claimed administrative and trading powers over much of the horn of Africa. Interestingly enough, its also said to be the home of the Ark of the Covenant.

The road to it used to be regarded as one of the most adventurous on the continent. Crazy mountain passes with nothing preventing a long fall off the edge. This remains true for the first 50km from Debark which features a spectacular mountain pass complete with a combination of mist and dust swirling in the air after which you pick up the Chinese built roads that Africa is covered with. A beautifully smooth piece of tar with almost no traffic I had a hoot hammering up and down the roads leaning into some of the corners until I dragged my foot pegs or bags up the road.

Simien Mountains Ethiopia
That brilliant road to Aksum
A few photo opportunities later I made it to the Hotel Africa. Secured parking and a bed for just a few dollars. The shower was hot and I found myself wandering the streets with a group of Overland truck travelers. A motley bunch varying from the amusing driving team through to those just along for a week or two it was my first insight into such a form of travel. Big days in the truck as it lumbers from place to place before setting yourself up wherever you're staying, participating in the obligatory local sights, sounds and smells before crashing and repeating the next days.

I spent the next morning wandering the sights of an empires old capital, the old tombs, the dam and the small museum. I dithered and pondered whether I'd head to some of the rock carved churches in the north but my budget prevented me from heading to Mekele and the Danakil Depression. These two sites are ones I'd go back to Ethiopia for.

Lalibela:
Instead I took the central dirt road towards Lalibela. I knew I wouldn't make it in a day though it became quickly apparent that I wouldn't make it far at all after I got struck by my first puncture.

As far from anyone as I had been in Ethiopia this road had a handful of small towns down its length I thought I might have found one of the better stops for a break down. Never the less kids appeared out of the wood work, staring at me from over rocks up the sides of nearby mountains and wandering around me and my bike.

I've often been asked if I'm scared of having problems, whether I get worried about being stranded. My answer has always been two-fold - why worry until it happens and secondly, I'm ready for when it does. I carry two tire levers, the spanner for the rear wheel nut, a small compressor as well as spare tubes and a tube patch kit.

I set to work and after I little bit of fun getting the pesky bead seated I was back on the road. With the dark setting in and my belief in my remoteness I headed off a little way further before ducking off the road into a riverbed.

Naturally riverbeds are local highways, used by everyone and their dog to get where they're going. Lesson learnt for future nights. As the sun was setting I was spotted by one teen and by morning I was surrounded.

"What are you doing?" their appointed spokesboy asked. "Camping" I responded "I needed to sleep". "Why?" he asked. "Because I was sleepy" I quipped. They looked among themselves with the most incredulous looks. "Why are you here?" he responded. "I'm headed to Lalibela and then to Addis Ababa" I said as a collected round of 'oooohhhhs' went up. "Why don't you go to a hotel?" another asked. "Because I refer camping" I told them all. "Can we have some food?" to which they all went silent as I stood before them reflecting their earlier incredulous look. "I don't have any" I said quietly. "You always have food" was responded by a simple shake of my head.



Wild camping

My first puncture

After this I started asking for names, where they lived, what they did but I'd lost them with my refusal to offer anything that they could hold and enjoy. As with everywhere I was greeted with "You, you, you, yo......", or "money, money, money" or "pen, pen, pen". From time to time I gave a pen thinking at least they were entrepreneurial if they tried to sell them on but after a while most get the message that you're not a typical schmuck. Its one of the most tiring things about Ethiopia though. I thought I'd seen bad in Morocco and Egypt but Ethiopian begging took it too a new level.

Lalibela offered a day's rest and some of the most impressive things I've ever seen. The rock-cut churches of Lalibela were built by the synonymous king. Some of the most impressive I've ever seen they are literally hewn from the Mountain, their roofs following the lines of the mountains topography. It's quite remarkable walking around at ground level and looking down to the singing, chanting masses as they pray.

Waking at 5am and walking up to one of the churches was one of the most serene experiences of the trip. Watching the proceedings, the music and the fervor of belief was quite touching. I sat with Oliver, a fellow rider of a Ural with sidecar as we spoke to some local children. I was invited by one young lady back to her house for tea with her family but fearing a tourist trap I begged off and headed south towards Addis.


Inside just one of them

The laneways and passages carved into the stone

Aweinspiring


St George Church from above

St George Church
Addis Ababa:
A long day in the saddle as I wiggled my way towards Dessie and some petrol. Arriving in the town I found a queue of 100 tuk tuks waiting patiently for petrol so I rolled around the corner and around the next until I sat at the back of the group. Accepting a fair wait I started chatting with the boys and having a laugh comparing the tuk tuk motor to the one on my motorbike.

Suddenly this women come jogging around the corner, puffing away as she grabbed at me and started to drag me to the bowser. "You first". Suspecting some fee for the queue jump I headed to the front of the line and astonished everyone loading up 34l into my tank. "That's more than my car" she said. But I discovered that it was more likely just the perk of having sold so much fuel in one big lump. Not just a liter at a time.

From here the ride to Debre Birhan saw the altitude climb again, up a mountain pass festooned with Baboons and a quick lunch of injera in town. From there I reached Addis late in the afternoon where I arrived at the popular Wims Holland House. I sent myself up in their little compound and took to the bar for a nice relaxing and my first solid internet connection in months. Shortly after I arrived two others motorbike riders turned up, my first introduction to Ferry and Gulcin. Textbook adorable on two 250s riding the world. Having spent two years looping Africa they were on their last stretch home.

It was a delight making friends and relaxing with some mod cons before I coped my first very traffic accident after I got hit by a delightful chap running a red light. Luckily I was riding with friends who looked after the bike so I didn't have to abandon it while I headed to the police station.

With some time the cockiness of the young man who hit me died away as he faced the reality of what had happened. In time he began to nudge me towards accepting going separate ways. My own dubiousness of the official process of a scene inspection determining who was at fault pushed me to agree and run. Straightening out the bike would have to wait I rode back in second and tucked myself away for the night to lick my wounds.

A few days of recuperation and relaxing with friends had me rearing to get going again. I was itching to get some miles under my belt. I didn't like being stationary for long.

Omo Valley
The ride out to Arba Minch was just what I needed, small roads as I took the back route wiggling through the mountainous pot hole riddled road. I've rarely had so much fun. My first stop was at Langano Lake to enjoy the tranquility of the rift valley. The next morning I headed south making my way towards a cliff-side hotel's garden. In my time, the Bekela Mola Hotel offered the cheapest camping in the area. With the Emerald resort offering the best restaurant and bar but the most expensive night possible in a pretty abysmal campground.

Arba Minch Ethiopia
Arba Minch - Escarpment view
In Ethiopia camping was generally up to 200 birr a night. I outright refused to spend more than that anywhere. If in the area the Dorze Lodge before Arba Minch is top quality and has come highly recommended but I only heard of it afterwards.

From Arba Minch I headed through Konso towards Turmi. At Woito I turned off the black-top and took the back route through Arbore. I highly recommend the detour during the dry. The road would frequently be washed out during the wet and one stretch is through a gigantic riverbed that leads out of the highlands and into the low farming lands of the tribesmen. I hit one puddle and expected it to be like all the rest, next minute I was standing in knee deep water just outside Arbore. Soaking with a drowned motorbike. I pulled the cover off the air box to drain the water out and cleared the breather on the carburetor. While doing so one of the local chaps dropped by and had a good laugh with me. The son of one of the chiefs he was checking in to make sure all was okay. I regret not spending the night as I instead pushed on towards Turmi enthusiastic for my desire to attack Turkana and hopeful that I'd miss the rains that were threatening to scupper my attempt.


Road to the middle of nowhere

This would be spectacular in full flow

I love these road into the mist


View as you drop out of the highlands



Turmi:
By mid afternoon I'd found myself a few kilometers from Turmi but blocked by one fairly healthy obstacle. A river flowed before me, churning into the distance apace. Pulling up on my side I waded across, a fairly firm base had me confident I'd be able to make it. One of the guys on the other side pointed out a rough down river route to go with the flow.

Jumping on the bike, tucking my electrics into their waterproof bags and crossing my fingers that I wouldn't come off and ruin everything I rode into the water. Everything went swimmingly until those last few meters before the bank where the sand beneath me disappeared as I waded hard, paddling my feet away. As I popped out the other side the carb spluttered one last cough of water filled petrol and the bike died. At least I was through in that moment I felt victorious.

Luckily the resuscitation didn't take long and after a quick face wash in the river I rode up the bank into the Mango campsite. I was quickly welcomed by a young Brit who had made one of the little huts her home. An expat NGO worker she met and fell in love with a local tribesman. Pregnant, married and now bouncing a baby boy on her hip she is calling Ethiopia her home for now. A life she never imagined before she left and one I could never imagine confronting.

I rode along into town tossing up whether I wanted to stay at one of the lodges there or head back to the campsite. I first found some fuel and a bite to eat as well as arranging myself a guide to the Hamer Bull Jumping ceremony that was going on the following morning.

Hamer Bull Jumping Ethiopia
A taste of the bull jumping
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Hopeful of getting internet to contact some friends to join me for Turkana I stayed at the Kizo lodge having negotiated prices down to $5. As always the power was out but I chose to look on the positive side. I was here in this quintessential African town at the southern end of Ethiopia about to embark upon one of the biggest adventures I'd ever considered.

I was almost out of Ethiopia, a country I had long been curious about. The food and a good friend of mine who had lived there as a kid made it sound like an epic place to explore. It had been fulfilling but also more challenging and exhausting than many places I'd traveled before. The people are one had one of the greatest degrees of distain for foreigners I have ever come across. I regularly had children throwing stones, people attempting to whip me when I went by and just generally treat me with contempt at times. Ethiopia has a reputation as being one of the most brutal countries to cycle across and I didn't feel much better off on a motorcycle.

I sat in Turmi that evening over a with one of the others who was there spectating with me, an old school rider who did what I was doing now, decades ago. I have insane respect and a crazy degree of envy for the experience. I hope that I get to experience more places in the world before they reach their heyday. The adventure is rapidly evaporating from this world.

From here to Omerate was a short ride on the last tar I would see for a while, I stopped to sort out my immigration's and custom's paperwork, top up with fuel and change my remaining Birr into Kenyan shillings. I attempted to get some more information out of the locals as to the weather and the likely levels of the river. I had been warned about one big crossing just before Illeret, the first outpost on the Kenyan side of the border. That small river before Turmi was one of its many tributaries and if that was up I was told I'd be sure that the one before Illeret would be neck deep and impossible.

Provided I left Ethiopia that day it was fine for me to head there and check out the river provided I ran back out the border road to the West of the lake before the day was over if it was necessary. As it turns out that wasn't to be a problem. There was not a lick of water anywhere near that crossing. Committed, I passed through the final Ethiopian passport check and was into Kenya!

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Great story. When do we get the next episode

My route into Kenya was the unconventional route via Lake Turkana. Unorthodox as there is no border post on the Kenyan side of the crossing.* Further, the routes range from extremely remote to a long way from anywhere. It was one of the hardest parts of the trip, but such is the price of adventure and I loved every second.

Lake Turkana is also known as the Jade Sea and is possibly one of the most remote parts of Eastern Africa. The colour of the lake is spectacular, the scenery around it breath-taking and the night skies are untouched by light pollution. From Illeret south, you pass through the Sibiloi National Park one of the most remote and rarely visited parks in the country.

The Eastern route involves backtracking out of Omerate in Ethiopia some 14km and picking up a small sandy track to the south. From there out you’re about two hours from the final border outpost and entry into a new country. Alternatively, you cross the bridge and are off down the Western edge of the lake. This route’s roads are apparently a little better although potentially slightly longer between petrol stops.

Logistics:

I found petrol in Turmi, but I’d recommend stocking up in Omerate if you’re on a bike.*Once you've come into town head past the customs checkpoint and follow the road a few hundred meters further into town. There is a fork in the road and on the right-hand side, there is a petrol man.

I believe the last fuel pump is in Konso if you’re in need of a lot of fuel coming south from Ethiopia. You may be able to get a few litres in Illeret and then later in Lioyangalani but I wouldn’t count on fuel until Baragoi where I found my first Kenyan petrol pump (though Maralal was the first major petrol station and ATM for Kenyan Shillings).

I managed to change a few USD and my remaining BIRR in a little shop next to the petrol man for a few shillings. The rate was okay but I didn’t get myself enough and found it almost impossible to change USD in Kenya.

Distances on the Eastern route:

Konso to Omerate directly is 275km

Konso to Omerate via Arbore is 265km (although you’ll likely use more fuel as its slow, stop-start sandy and sometimes rocky roads).

Omerate to Illeret is 75km

Illeret to Lioyangalani is 275 through Sibiloi or 300+ if you go through North Horr.

Lioyangalani to Baragoi is 130 km.

Baragoi to Maralal is 105 km.

Overall, I did Omerate to Lioyangalani without getting any more fuel. This is the better part of 330 km before I picked up another few litres for the 240 odd km to Maralal (I wasn’t aware of the pump at Baragoi). Overall, you need a reliable 600 km range in the event you cannot find any more fuel along the road.




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The Route:

Having been on the dirt since the Woito turn off for some 190 km the brief stint of tar to Omerate was a welcome relief from the trepidation I felt about the adventure I was about to undertake. From this point forward, however, it’s some of the most challenging riding I’ve ever done. Sand, fist-sized rocks and deep fresh untouched mud for some 330 km before another 300 km of corrugations, mud and roadworks through towards the main highway.

Unsure what the state of the river crossings would be I was told by immigration and customs in Omerate that provided I left the country that day it was okay for me to head south to check the route before deciding whether I double back and head out across the river and down the west side of the lake.

It was a risk but one I had been excited about for a long time. The track was firm sand for the most part. The occasional soft patch requiring constant vigilance. My love for sand riding came back to the fore and I raced along determined to check the height of the river and determined which way I would be forced to head.

I wiggled my way past tribal settlements and at one point was overtaken on the only local motorbike I saw in the area. A young fella raced passed me frustrated by how long it took him to get passed me on my big lane hogging bike. Unwilling to push it and risk damage to myself and the bike my pace was more sedate and I soon dropped out of his dust cloud.

Time and time again I cut across small river beds at most 20 m wide and all as dry as a bone. The soft sand requiring a deft touch and just the right amount of throttle to keep me moving but not enough to kick me off as the front wheel switched path through the ruts. Somehow, I stayed upright and moving forward. Little more than two hours later I rode through a large cluster of huts and was pointed by some locals to a man clad in camouflage trousers with a wire stretching across the most prominent route through the village. It wouldn’t have taken much to skirt around him and if I hadn’t been rolling along so carelessly, I probably would have ridden right past without realising.

I pulled up and he wanted a cursory glance at my passport, stamped out at Omerate he was content, and the wire was raised enough for me to squeeze under it. Ethiopia was official behind me; the lake was to my right a little off in the distance lost in the reeds.

Within two kilometres I stopped in this bizarre open patch that ran perpendicular from the lake and off into the distance along the exact line of the border. I wondered whether it had been cleared or if there was some natural contour here that had prompted the creation of the border or whether it was merely a coincidence.

A quick selfie, a screenshot of Maps.Me with me sitting on the border which I since lost I rolled off into Kenya. Immediately I was struck at how many more people there were. I passed through the fairy sizeable settlement of Il Olo and stopped to ask one young man the road to Ileret. Waving south, down the lake I got the impression there weren’t many ways I could go wrong.

The road continued in much the same manner as before. There were countless meandering tracks cutting back and forth across one another but all vaguely heading in the same direction. The soft sand was the dominant feature now though. High gear, low revs, standing on the pegs, looking a long way ahead and tractor through. Let the bike squirm around between your legs. Don’t fight it and keep the speed sufficient to blast through the ridges that would seek to buck you off and you’ll be just fine.

Sand riding requires a devil may care attitude that makes you question your sanity. Too slow and you'll be falling off endlessly, exhausted from picking the bike up repeatedly and from paddling away with your little legs every time you try to get going. However, if you get up to that sweet spot, somewhere in 3^rd gear the bike has the momentum to carry you across the ruts and keep blasting along. You know that when you do come off though, it's much more likely to hurt.

The ride into Ileret required the crossing of a huge river and the scramble up the side of a loose hill. The town is constructed on the only hill in the area overlooking the lake. *When I arrived I set about in search of Madame How, a woman I had been told would be running the local shop.

She is also potentially the best source of petrol if you’re passing through however it would only be a few litres for at least $2 per/litre. I had been given a Kenyan sim-card and luckily she had enough credit for me to buy a few 100 MB of data to use. Here, even in the middle of nowhere, miles from anywhere, there was reception.

Connected I was then directed up the mountain to the local police station. While there is no customs or immigration facilities into Kenya on this route it is commonly accepted that you stop and register with the police chief in a large, ancient-looking dusty book. He was a character and I shared a with him before I continued on south. I wanted to get out of town and see if I could find somewhere to camp along the lake for the night. On the road out of town, I was confronted by some fairly impressive corrugations and some beautiful dusty desert scenery. The lake was lost in the scrub to my right, a few kilometres away. My route had me set to turn away from the lake some 25 km south.

When I got to this turn off I discovered the track wound its way across a wide river bed. An unexpected set of signs identified the riverbed as an airfield. *Instead of following the track inland, I headed west hoping to ride the 800 m towards the lake to camp on the shore. I wiggled through the heather hoping to head roughly in the correct direction. Riding through one particularly big clump of grass the bike suddenly dropped out from under me. The bike and I sank straight into a swamp. I went over the handlebars and landed with a thud and a squelch. Of all the places to get stuck! I set around pulling my bags off, trying to lighten the load.

I’d come off and the bike slowly laid itself over. The mud all but glued the bike down. Dumping my jacket, pulling off my shirt I got caked in the mud as I pushed and heaved and dug to get the bike upright. All the while it leaked fuel, I cursed and swore, pushed and heaved before suddenly it came free.

With the bike upright, and fuel no longer the primary concern I set into three mangos I’d picked up the day prior in Turmi. Knowing I had what little water I was carrying I was rationing myself. But still, in that heat, I needed far more than I had.

I relaxed and watched as a local Turkana man went wandering past just a short distance away. He stopped and rested while watching me for a short moment. I watched as he shook his head and continuing on his way. At this point, I went back to the bike and started her up. Kicking it down into first gear, full throttle and dumped the clutch. With the rear wheel digging away slowly while I pushed hard I managed to inch it forwards.

Having cleared the worst of the heather and feeling slightly successful I started to drag the front around, inch by inch until it was pointed in a straight line to get it up onto solid ground again. Repeating the process from earlier I pushed, rode it and ground on to get myself out of the swamp. Once I dragged the bike out and had it sitting there on the hard ground I legitimately had tears of joy. Although I was also kicking myself for my stupidity.

From there, I headed back to the airfield and back onto the track. Heading inland away from the lake I rode my weary bones in the direction of the park and set up camp an hour or so later. Wishing I had more water, and more time, I chose to push on. I set up camp and for the first time absorbed where I was. Miles from anywhere. Just a few tribespeople, one father and son pairing in a truck making their way south. I sat there, on top of an outcrop and watched the world go past.

A farmer walked across the plain shepherding his sheep, meanwhile, some camels climbed around the side of the hill before coming towards me to investigate.




Setting up a little fire and scrounging whatever dry shrubbery I could I set about cooking my pasta. Tipping in some diced-up tomato and onion before settling down to watch the sun drop in the background. Descending over the hills beyond the lake, lighting the whole area in the most beautiful green and gold.





I rose with the sun, absorbed the sunrise and headed south towards the park. I passed through a few small tribal settlements and stopped at one just before the sign marking the start of the park. The better part of a dozen little munchkins came running out and surrounded me. High-fiving several of them I had got off the bike and sat down in the shade with them. Their teacher spoke English and I learnt that he travelled the tribes providing education to the little ones. Suspicious of strangers and curious about this alien descended from god knows where the kids looked at me with big wide eyes. None of them asked for anything by the attention. I am sure I looked like an alien with my helmet and the rest of the gear all covered in mud.




From here the track turned to lose sand and I passed into the national park. From the north, there is no gate, no place to pay the park fees. For this reason, it is possible to tell the guards at the southern gate that you’d only been in the park for a night, regardless of how long you manage to stay there for.



Sand, roads made of fist sized rock and the occasional moment smooth hard packed dirt lead me through some of the most beautiful scenery in the area. Almost no animals and even fewer people I realised that by entering the park I had gotten away from any sort of settlements. I crossed river bed after riverbed, the track changed over and over and suddenly it all but disappeared. I climbed off the bike and went wandering through the scrub. My GPS was showing a track south somewhere nearby, but it was attempting to navigate and when I thought I was close enough it told me I was on the line, even if I wasn’t. I came across the track, a muddy set of ruts through some low lying scrub and I went wandering back in search of the bike.

I wandered and wandered and ended up at the track again. Starting to get concerned I walked back up the track to find the point where Id met it and then tried backtracking my footprints. It’s a unique satisfaction when you find your form of transportation amongst the scrub. Rolling through the shrubbery I landed with a splat just a meter from the track. Lifting the bike back upright I chose to try to walk the bike rather than ride it.

I made it a mere meter before I conceded defeat. The mud clogged my boots and left me feeling like I was standing on an ice rink with blocks of polished concrete for feet. Trying to support 170kg while your feet slide out from under you is no fun. Ominous clouds gathered overhead and I was terrified of the thought of rain in this mud pit. I set about taking the bags off the bike, stacking them by the side of the track in the off chance someone came racing through in a car.



From here started the single hardest 3km walk of my life. Lots of throttles, dump the clutch and push hard. The back tire emptied of all pressure to get the best grip possible, I tried riding when the surface got firmer but without fail it just sank the bike to the base plate and I had to work even harder to dig it out.

At one point I ditched the bike and walked up the track, wondering just how far this was going to drag on for. By this point, I’d maybe done 1 of my 3 km. Knowing that it would come to an end though was all I needed to trudge back to the bike and continuing my process of pushing, riding and lifting the bike through the swamp.



The surface improved only slightly throughout with short sections occasionally covered with a jumble of rock that gave me a little more of a solid basis to push from. Across three small riverbeds, I was finally at the end of that hellish length of the track.



With the bike there at least, I spent the rest of my day hiking the three kilometres back and forth twice over as I could not carry all my luggage at once, slipping all over the place. Loading the bike up at the bottom of the hill, I turned around for a quick sip of water before discovering the bike upside down behind me. Undoing it all, dragging the bike upright all over again, I got it to the top of the slope and trudged back down to get my bags all over again.

From there I rode maybe 4 more km before finding myself overlooking the lake to my right and the south of Sibiloi National Park in front of me. Roasted in the heat of the day, exhausted from my hike and the physical effort of getting the bike through the muddy track I was shattered. I could barely bend over and set up the tent was the slowest effort of my life. I ate dinner and curled up in bed. I slept as soundly as I ever have.








I crawled stiffly from the tent the following morning and once packed headed south towards the gate of the park. A short, almost uneventful ride later apart from a bit of water on a more solid track, I arrived at the guard house and was greeted by two shocked young men. I was a bit of a state, that is to be sure.

I managed to get the student prices for a night’s stay in the park and stupidly paid up with the last of my Kenyan shillings. I should have used my USD and copped the change as natureally they had noone. Bless their cotton socks, but they were so determined to demonstrate it wasn't graft they showed me through the money box and the records of when the money had been collected. I was sure I would be able to change some USD in the towns I would pass through to the south. Jokingly I asked if they had any food for sale and I got loaded up with cans of pineapple and army ration biscuits.

The road outside the park was rough, but far more used. Linking up tribal settlements I started passing by people again. After the solitude of the park it was nice to see some sign that people were around. There are few places in the world were you won’t have people wander by if you sit for long, and this remote corner of Kenya was no different. From here the road got better and better until it wasn’t.



I was riding along with my sunglasses on and I briefly realised that the track in front of me darkened. I wandered if there was a cloud and the next moment, I was flung off the bike and slid down the road in a clay covered blur. The entire area was a bolder field, and the geniuses in charge of road construction had carved the road a meter below the surrounding surface. Naturally every drip of water in the local area descended into this road and aside from a few short sections of paving the rest was calf deep clay mud.



I stripped the bags off again and after finally getting it upright I set about walking it down the track. Slipping and sliding my way towards Lioyangalani. I found the old track a few hundred meters later and rode down the old, dry road before dropping back into the muddy pool for the last stint to the river crossing. From here the road dried out, a few sections of paving appeared and finally I rolled along the shore of lake Turkana and into town as the sun set. Pulling up in the Palm Shade camp, I ordered a and collapsed into a muddy puddle as the heavens opened and I watched the rain through the palm fronds under a nice dry pergola.







For a more formatted version and the rest of my blog check out http://jordanwandersaround.com/2018/...ike-adventure/

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jordanwandersaround.com

Click here to see my Kenya travel tips

My route into Kenya was the unconventional route via Lake Turkana. Unorthodox as there is no border post on the Kenyan side of the crossing and the routes range from extremely remote to a long way from anywhere. It was one of the hardest parts of the trip, but such is the price of adventure and I loved every second.


Click here to read my Turkana report

Samburu Country

Illeret had been my first taste of Kenya but Loiyangalani marked the end of the worst part of the route. The Palm Shade camp would have been a delightful place to spend a few more days but I was running short on cash and I was unable to exchange more than 10 USD for Kenyan Shillings in the town. Desperate for money I was forced to continue for fear of being stuck unable to buy petrol, food or a place to sleep.



While the dirt continued through to Baragoi, the road was in fairly decent condition until I encountered my first major wet season downpour. Desperate to hide and let the rain pass I pulled up under the cover of the local police station and sat it out hanging around with the locals. Luckily no one asked for any paperwork and as the rain calmed, I continued. Within 100m I passed the invisible line that ended the wet. These rain storms are so concentrated. *From then on, I vowed to plough on and get through from under the clouds when they let loose on me.



Down the east of Turkana, the fuel pump at Baragoi (both petrol and diesel) will be first or last fuel you’ll encounter in any great abundance. Fuel can be purchased in small amounts in Loiyangalani and Illeret in Kenya and Omerate and Turmi in Ethiopia but probably not in sufficient amounts to refill a car tank.

Unable to change any more dollars here either I put in some 130 shillings which worked out to be little more than a litre. I had officially reached the start of expensive petrol. From Egypt to Ethiopia it had been cheap as chips, from here south fuel played a much larger role in my budget.

Maralal

The road to Maralal was a much more frequently traversed road. I had to contend with traffic and corrugations rather than struggle through roads that appeared to have not been driven for a long time. Particularly cool was the long stretch of top-quality graded dirt road maintained privately by the company that owns the gigantic wind farm to the east of the lake. Its quite the contrast, tribal huts to massive whirring windmills swinging lazily in the breeze.

I cannot put into words the satisfaction I felt when I rolled through a roundabout and onto the first bit of tar I had seen since Ethiopia. Maralal offered a supermarket, an atm, a big petrol station and a chance to get some distance covered down towards Nairobi in the following days.

How quickly that elation fades. Refuelled, my coffers restocked I headed off towards an iOverlander recommendation just a little south of the town. It was the only campsite listed, I doubted there would be much chance for wild camping as the area was quite populated. Within a kilometre of the town on the road south, roadworks began. Proudly attempting to pave their way towards Nanyuki and the existing tar roads in central Kenya.

African roadworks mean dozing a side road through whatever is next to the road and making all access to the well-established old road impossible. Add a little rain and a load of traffic the paddocks you’re driving through turn into slop. A sloppy, muddy, soaking wet ice rink.

Thinking I was through the worst of it, I then dropped the bike two more times and I was left feeling pretty down having arrived at the supposed campsite to discover it was permanently closed. Heading back out onto the road to head back into town and hopefully find a hotel I slid sideways straight into a ditch, sinking the bike to the base of the seat in the soft mud. Exhausted, sore and dejected I tried to pull it out. As expected this did little more than force me to slip over, land in the ditch and get even muddier.

Shattered I sat and yet again asked myself what on earth I was doing. This local chap in a defender pulled up and asked if I wanted a tow out of the swamp. Naturally, I accepted. Delighted not to be alone and struggle indefinitely. The memory of my struggle after my mistake south of Illeret was high on my mind.

Back out and making my way back through the swamp to town I came off again at one small bottleneck between two properties hanging myself up on a barbed wire fence in the process. I yanked my helmet off and swore loudly, throwing the latest of many hissy fits.

Suddenly I hear this voice ring out, a New Zealanders accent pierced through my frustration. *I look across to see this woman sitting in front of a small local butcher shop with a Masai man beside her. This was my first introduction to Julie and Moses, one of the most delightful pairs I met on the trip.

Julie met Moses while in Mombasa having hired him as a private detective to track something down that had been stolen. A romance ensued that neither expected but visa issues send her home. Communicating from overseas she cut him off after a friend convinced her that he must be a con artist. A trip back to Kenya resulted in them co-incidentally running into each other on the streets and making the decision that something wanted them to be together.

Those that have seen them together know that although unconventional they’re a such a perfect pair. The kiwi business trainer and the Masai warrior. Rarely such a combination works but between these two it does. I spent the most delightful night under their roof with their little family, who needs electricity and heating when you have the most delightful little house off the beaten track.

From their house out to Nanyuki I was back on the dirt, the new road running out an hour before Maralal. It's amazing how much quicker a tar road is.*Julie estimated that it would make the drive 3 times as fast. Halfway down I found my first Zebra, wild and roaming free. Who needs to visit the parks when you go explore the great wide world?

The world is rapidly getting smaller. Even the traditional route from Ethiopia via Moyale is now a major highway. Just a few years ago it used to hold the title for worst road in Africa home of bandits, cretins and bomb hole sized potholes.

Lake Naivasha

The moment I hit that bitumen and knew I’d be on it for a while was a victory if I’ve ever felt one. Within moments I settled into a comfortable 110kph cruise and blasted my way south to Lake Naivasha. It was somewhere here I hit the equator. Entirely unexpected I sailed right past the sign and it took a moment to register just how far I had come. England to the equator, how cool is that.

A delightful camp on the lake's edge called me and I couldn’t wait to enjoy the scenery and check out my first African fora. There are two options that are widely touted – Camp Carnelley’s and Fisherman’s. I settled down at Fisherman’s but only because I’d been told it was a little quieter and more popular with the backpackers due to the lower prices.

This lake is supposed to be hippo central but as with most of the places I stopped off at where there were supposed to be loads of wildlife I could just hear them in the distance. Got the chance to meet a brilliant Canadian named Mike who had abandoned an Overland truck tour in favour of backpacking on his own two feet and a lifetime Swiss traveller Edouard. Had some good s before my spaghetti and dates got stolen by monkeys and settled in for some good quality Kenyan chapati, chips, ‘smokey’ sausage and samosas.



The common choice here is to cough up for the Devils Gate NP and head into the park on a bicycle. Enjoy the scenery while you get up close and personal with the wildlife. There are no predators in the park so you don't have to worry about peddling past a lion.



Nairobi

Naivasha is delightfully close to Nairobi and if I ever head that way to live at all I would be spending most weekends in that little patch of paradise. The road to Nairobi is short and the best place to stay is Jungle Junction. Chris is an overlanding hero and has memories of the 90s when there were hundreds of riders and Overlanders passing through at any one time. Now he’s lucky if there are two or three. His garage is one of the most equipped in Africa and if you need repairs that’s the place to go.

My first solid internet connection since Israel, I downloaded a movie walked to the biggest and most complete supermarket I’d seen in three months cooked up a feast and settled down on a comfy couch. Both Edouard and Mike joined me, I enjoyed some great company before heading into the city centre to finally get officially immigrated into the great country of Kenya.

I wandered the back streets and as was becoming a trend on my trip found great pleasure in exploring the mechanic's area of town chasing up spare parts and aluminium welders. For pennies I had my tank brace fixed and found my first can of chain lube in three countries.

Kilifi

From Nairobi to Mombasa is an infamous road. Guy, who I had met in the Sudan recently described it as being like Death Race. I have never been so terrified in my life riding anywhere. I thought Australian drivers and their inability to check their mirrors set a high standard but here I witnessed a truck, overtaking a truck who was overtaking a bus. Three massive vehicles barrelling down the highway towards me using up every inch of tar with a well-eroded drop on both sides.

At one point I was hard on the brakes, shot off the ride of this drop and had aired on my bike for one of the first times ever. Skidding through the loose gravel I managed to arrest my momentum just meters from the crackling and electrified wildlife proof fence.

There were a few moments I was ever this damn tense. Nothing like highway speed to nought without any semblance of control. At one point I found myself face to face with the impact of the rainy season. The traffic drew to a halt. I jumped off and had a chat with some of the guys who at first told me a bridge was out, then that I should go back and wait. My typical enthusiasm had me head off road, down the steep embankment and through the scrub until the traffic had itself in orderly lines before I lane split for a few kilometres. A soldier waved me into the merging traffic and I passed a big old BMW motorbike parked up on the side of the road with the locals. I considered stopping to have a chat, but I was too focused on getting through the water running over the road.

A bus had already dropped off the edge into the torrents below, but I trusted that if the sedans coming the other way could survive I should be fine as well. Following in the wake of an army Landcruiser I felt the water trickling over the tops of my boots when I was forced to stop in the traffic.

After this, the run was almost uneventful. No one else tried to kill me and I didn’t get swept off in a torrent of running water. I arrived at Distant Relatives in Kilifi early enough to set up and chill out by the pool. The place is beautiful, I wandered down to the beach a little drunk and walked into the water looking up at the full moon. Food and drinks are a little expensive and sadly you have to pay for Wifi but the atmosphere is delightful. Lounging by the pool digesting some exceptionally uninteresting piece of literature I met Julieta, an Argentinian artist taking a few months to explore Africa.

Later I met the owners of the Camp Carnelleys. Lovat is a brilliant guy and fellow rider who gave me some insight into life as a white 6th generation Kenyan along with his family. Sitting beside the pool they had come to the coast to get away from the grind and enjoy a little break. Although they knew the owners at Distant Relatives they were staying nearby in some friend’s holiday house. Inviting me back for dinner I was gobsmacked when I saw this house. Sitting atop the cliffs looking out over the small inlet from the ocean it was a real treat. Thanks for having me guys!

Watamu

Hungover and a little exhausted I headed back to distant relatives to meet up with Julieta. Feeling a little more recovered we made plans to head north for the day to check out the Gede ruins and beach at Watamu. Curiously it seems that much of the coastline to the south of the town is part of a coastal national park and comes with standard Kenyan $50 entry fees. Instead, we rode north just a little way to where the beach becomes free and is just as beautiful. The area is known for its bizarre rock formations out in the shallows. It’s a nice spot for a dip to get away from the sweatbox that is the wet season heat.

Mombasa

Back to Kilifi and down to Mombasa we rode through the last of the light to Diani beach and a popular backpackers haunt on the coast. A pool and the ocean just meters away it made for a relaxing spot to pass a few nights. From there I sat at the famous beaches of Mombasa and watched the light disappear from the skies and the stars being to sparkle.

Lake Chala

The next day I bid my new friends adieu and headed for the Tanzanian border. The road passes through Voi before crossing Tsavo West National Park. It’s a major road and evidently, there are few predators so the main road carves the park in two.

Just a few km before the Taveta border crossing I turned off the tar and took a small dirt road along the border towards Lake Chala. Considered one of the deepest crater lakes in the world, its depths have never been tested, no one has ever made it to the bottom. The border bisects the lake, camping that night on the Kenyan side of the border I looked across at Tanzania for the first time. I woke the following morning to rare clear skies and unzipping my tent I saw Kilimanjaro rising in the background.



It’s an awe-inspiring sight. I hope to climb it one day. I met a bunch of real characters who introduced themselves as the local smugglers. Bringing whatever they could across from Tanzania informally by canoe across the lake. It is an amusing sight, this band of misfits with their nice jam and recently baked bread a long way from any sort of town. I rose early and continued towards Oloitokitok (pronounced Loitokitok). The road went from bad to worse as I pushed on through the slippery mud. Occasionally stopping and attempting to find out how long that awful bit would continue for.

Such questions are generally futile though. How can you hope to find out road*conditions from people who rarely stray from their immediate area? All roads are bad to them and trying to get a more detailed explanation is often impossible due to the language barrier. Rain makes the roads turn to slush and challenging to ride because the front wheel drops out from under you. But then when they dry they’re churned up and what remains is worst than even the most terrible corrugations.

Eventually, the road dried out and I picked up a smoother track. *Though its river crossings had at one point washed a crossing away. Yet again the perks of being on a motorbike were clear. While the road was reconstructed, cars and trucks were forced to wait while I simply forded the river and carried on my way.

Ultimately, I reached the proverbial crossroads. I could go left to Tanzania or right through Kenya to Uganda and Rwanda. Pushed for time, logic and the wet season compelled me to head south. Sorry Uganda and Rwanda, I’ll be back another day.

The process for leaving Kenya is straight forward, passport takes two minutes and a chat with a fella who found it very interesting that I study law. Before heading to customs for the carnet clearance which involves a stamp and a check of your permit.

Note: Kenya requires a foreign vehicle permit. A recent introduction it’s done online. It requires time to be ‘processed’. You get the first two weeks free but if you don’t leave the country before then you’ll be caught out. You have to get the invoice that says you have paid the fee. It didn’t need to be processed when I left, I merely had to pay. Coincidentally I had it refunded two weeks later so obviously if its cancelled while its processed they don’t charge for it.

Onwards to Tanzania!

For pics check out Kenya - Jordan Wanders Around

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jordanwandersaround.com

Hi Jordan,

Loving reading about your Journey mate, well done and good luck

Paul

Wow....this sounds like a ride of a life! It was really great even to read it, can't imagine how much rollercoster it is to pull out sometihng like this emotionally and physically!


Bravo Zulu!
neu