Last time I ended with rejoining Fabian. We were at the cafe and I ate a meat pie which I had mistaken for an apple pie. That was somewhat disappointing since good pies or cakes had been hard to get.
But anyway there is one important story I wanted to tell which I forgot in the last report: Back in Gitarama I was returning from a restaurant with Sandra. Governmental website always state that you’re not supposed to drive in African countries at night time because of people on the street, pot holes, etc.
I never thought about those problems applying to pedestrians but they do. What happened is.. well I fell into a hole. It was so dark I couldn’t see the even darker hole right in front of me and like in a cartoon I ran into it. I seemed to hang in the air for a second while still speaking and then I fell right down. I scratched my knee (it doesn’t seem as if it’s meant to heal properly), arms and hands. Nothing severe but I was hanging there, clinging to the edge of a seeming bottomless hole. It actually was perhaps 1.5m deep but in the dark with my feet not touching the ground, since my torso was lying flat on the ground, it seemed bottomless. Before I realized what had happened or Sandra even moved the people walking down the road next to us had already pulled me out. Everything happened so quick that I realized what had happened only afterwards but it also occured to me that I probably would have have to be in danger of bleeding to death for people in Germany to help me.
… I know it’s not that bad. But it would have taken way longer. Just wanted to mention that with all my complaining last time. Still the people here are probably close to the most friendly in the world. And there’s an even better example to come.

Anyway. After our breakfeast we headed to Jock’s place – Jock is the coach of the Rwanda national cycling team – where we hoped to get our bikes back in shape. Unfortunatley Jock was in South Africa at that time to buy spares but we were able to meet his french mechanic Maxima who spend 6 hours with us that day repairing the bikes.
Maxime was such an amazing help. In case you read that: Thank you!!
We got them cleaned, changed cassettes and chains, repaired my front break (which for a different reason is broken already again but should be easily repaired.. just have to take the time), adjusted the gears, practically everything. The bikes were like new again! And such a pleasure of riding them… The problem with gears and parts wearing out is that it goes slowly you won’t notice the difference until it gets unbearable. But once you repair them the difference is.. huge!
Thanks again. You saved what remained of the original tour and what’s going to come.

Now with the new bikes and everything packed up again we headed to Michael’s and Kadda’s place (German volunteers, Fabian had met the day before) who had invited us to stay there. Rwanda is expensive so we were especially glad to stay with them – and for the nice company even more.
All summed up we had a great time in Ruhengeri with the different volunteers and I’d say it never got boring. We actually had so much to do I didn’t even get around to writing the blog…
And then finally Sunday arrived. Sunday was special because Jock was back from South Africa, we could pay for the spares and then finally get back on the road again.

The road from Ruhengeri to Uganda is not particularly spectacular, except for the amazing view on the Virunga volcanoes. And then well.. we left Rwanda. And here the conclusions:
Allthough I didn’t mention it in particular I talked with many many people about Rwanda, Rwandan society and especially how they act concerning the genocide. I dare say Rwanda is the country I learned the most about and I still have the feeling of only scratching on the surface.
I will start with the general things and superficial observations. First of all Rwanda is a very clean and well run country. It’s thoroughly organized, there’s not too much police or military around (compared to other countries), infrastructure is very well developed and in urban areas education seems to be on high levels. Rwanda has several universities with the best being in Butare and actually offering academic courses, unlike e.g. Zambia with its university of brick laying. Everywhere in Rwanda you will find purple and blue ribbons, memorials, flowers for the victims of the genocide. They seem to do great memorial work. This is also stressed by the amazing genocide memorial in Kigali.
Then concerning education again it’s not as good as it might seem. They do have schools and universities, yes. But the teaching methods are far from producing intellectual or critical thinkers and youth. Children get beaten here, not hit but beaten, for asking questions from the “why-age” on. They get laughed at in school for asking and in University foreign workers are complaining about having a dull class which doesn’t dare asking.
I don’t think this will be much different from other countries here but Rwanda is the only one where I have actually heard of it and even witnessed it.
Then concerning the post genocide memorials: Yes they are doing massive work. But it’s not all good. For example people that have buried their losses in or around their homes are forced to dig them back up and bring them to the memorial sites. The official reason is: “To have all the bones in one place”. People who don’t obey will be punished and nobody cares about the pains they might suffer whilst digging up the remains.
Then the genocide in public is an absolute tabu topic. No Rwandan will ever talk to you about it unless he really trusts you (for what I heard. I didn’t talk to Rwandans about it because I was too afraid to break that tabu to be honest). There are public displays of documents, photos and film from the genocide period during the 100 day memorial time (which is a third of the year!) and people attend it, publicly crying or suffering psychic crashes.. but nobody talks it.
And then, what troubled me most: Rwanda has one main difference from all the other countries I’ve traveled through. It’s got a certain sense of oppression and tension in the air. I heard people saying that there still are those animosities, although the words “Tutsi” and “Hutu” are banned, but people know perfectly well who’s who and it’s said to be possible to start boiling at any given time and event again.
People in Rwanda don’t laugh, they don’t talk loudly or freely. Or perhaps they do but it’s in a very different way. Everything comes at a certain price and the order and cleanliness in Rwanda seems to come from a ruler with a very tight grip on the country (the President won the last elections with 95% and if you ask random people the standard answer you will get is “He is very well loved”).
It is once again a country of outstanding beauty with touches of the toscany in some places but I wouldn’t say I really liked the country. Although people were once again more cautios and still friendly it’s just.. uneasy. I hope everything will be fine in future for Rwanda and that peace will remain stable and I still have just scratched the surface of what’s moving the country but for what I experienced it’s not a country I would like to stay in for a longer time.

And then the worst and most dangerous: Traffic. I came to the conclusion that those who apply to the army and get sorted out because they are too rambo for the operations in Congo get sent directly into the coach companies and on the road. Their mission: To eliminate everything on the road that is smaller than them, or slower, or weaker, or perhaps faster and bigger but not as beautiful. I don’t know but I’m convinced they actively tried to kill us and in some occasion there was no other possibility anymore than to take the jump into the ditch.

The night of that day was probably the worst and my entire circulation seemed to crash. I was shivering from cold, clothed in normal clothes, fleece set and the fleece blanket. I shivered the whole night wearing the above together with the sleeping bag and the inlet.

Fabian was lying next to me only with his sleeping bag and totally fine.

Still I always expected it to improve over night (since it couldn’t get much worse) and it did. The next day started off bad but conditions increased and in the evening I was feeling as healthy as ever.

We left Kabale, left the range of mountains of which we thought it was the last and entered savannah. That place was gorgeous. It reminded me a little of Namibia, we had slight backwind for the first time of what felt like ages and it was flat. Plain sheer pleasure.

We spent the night at some random guesthouse in a random trade center along the road and started cycling early the next day again. That is after a breakfast of Rolex (Chapati baked together with an omelet) and Chai.

The road continued with similar conditions and then at some point the traffic started to increase rapidly, which concerning the bad traffic before was really really bad. We had reached Mbarara.

The town itself is not worth mentioning at all. It is an awful place and I would never recommend cycling there but at the same instance the most amazing and my current favorite story happened there.

As you will all know Africa is poor. Uganda may be one of the better developed countries but compared to our standards it is still poor and we are although not by German standards rich.

Acting like a proper rich person I had forgotten I had placed my wallet on my bike seat when we pushed our bikes 30 meters down the road to an internet café. We crossed the road and once we reached the other side I realized the wallet was gone.

I ran back immediately up and down the road but it was not to be found. I asked everybody who was around, Boda drivers, Shopkeepers, random people walking down the road, street vendors. Most people were repellent, nobody had seen anything. I ran up and down three times before I gave up, I think people were already getting annoyed because I had asked them so often.

Eventually I gave up and called Barbara to cancel the credit card. The credit card was the only important thing in that wallet and the only way to withdraw money in Africa so its loss was a big one.

By that time probably 15 minutes had passed since I had lost the wallet.

Another five minutes later a man who had been standing in the shop on the opposite side approached me and asked me whether I had lost something. I told him about my misery and then he produced my wallet with everything (!) inside. Not a single bill or coin was missing, everything untouched.

I was so surprised and happy with my luck I hugged him, which in return seemed to surprise him a lot. After giving him a reward I immediately called Barbara back again who had, as fast as I could ever have wanted it, already cancelled the credit card.

To make a long story short: The credit card ended up being entirely useless in my wallet but I still think that an example of amazing honesty and reliability in a place like Africa. You always hear the horror stories but I really came down to relying on the help of these amazing people and the cyclists’ Fortuna.

The way I am describing this now is of course totally different from the way I felt then. I was furious after I discovered the credit card couldn’t be saved anymore. I tried to blame everybody for what happened, all the time knowing perfectly well it was only my own carelessness to blame. I tried to blame Fabian, I tried to blame African people in general, I even tried to blame the man who returned the wallet for taking so long.

I kept cycling 500m behind Fabian for the next two hours trying to get into a better mood again. But it is hard to admit there’s nobody to blame but yourself.

In the end I did. I convinced myself that nothing serious had happened, that I should take it as a lesson and that the only consequence is me being tied to Fabian in withdrawing money (Barbara had transferred parts of my money onto Fabians account). I caught back up with him, we had some great food and two Euro-Chocolate-Coins which I regarded as a good omen and then we cycled on through the beautiful beautiful country (all the while trying to survive the traffic).

Later that day a traffic police officer next to the road started running with us for a few meters, said he would join us to Masaka. His bouncing paunch made this a rather funny sight.

We slept in another random place, led there by a hoard of cheering children. Since I was in that amazingly post-frustration mood I enjoyed it a lot to joke around with them until the security guard of that place chased them away and closed the gate.

So as this article comes to an end I would just like to announce our further route: We’ll be heading (on a bus, because of traffic) to Jinja again tomorrow morning. Then we will cycle north to Mbale and cross at one of the northern borders into Kenya thus circumnavigating the northern slopes of Mt. Elgon. We’ll take a detour there to Kitum (or any other) Cave and Saiwa Swamp National Park (which you may only enter by foot).

Then we’ll cycle south, cross the Kakamega virgin Forest Reserve from west to east and make our way along the many back roads through the mountains south of Nakuru to Hell’s Gate National Park (which you can explore by bicycle on your own!). From there it’s… Nairobi. Once again a place where we have to go but don’t really want to go.

But we can visit Dennis’ brother there, pick up a care package and take our flight to West Africa, so it’s alright.

That said: We hope to be back on the road tomorrow and finally go cycling again. Also we hope you enjoyed the articles and photos and have a good time wherever you might be.

Fabian is at the moment working on implementing the Facebook-Like Button into this Website so once it’s up don’t forget to hit it .

We’ve been featured on this blog: http://tourististan.de/?p=1328

There will be an article on us in the Suedkurier in due time and the WDR is planning to do a short report on our tour too.

And one more piece of good news for all those Germans who suffer their ways through the long English texts. In Nairobi we’ll pick up a toughbook waiting for us there and then we’ll write bilingual again!

So long,

Tim

Mit der M.V. Liemba bin ich in Kirgoma angekommen. Tim ist mir nach Ruanda vorrausgefahren und ich will ihn mit oeffentlichen Verkehrsmitteln wider einhohlen. Von Kigoma will ich einen Bus bis kurz vor die ruandische Grenze nehmen. Planlos stehe ich morgens um 5 Uhr am Busbahnhof. Ein Soldat fuert mich freundlich zu einem Bus, der mich ans Ziel bringen soll und ist schon wieder verschwunden. Kurzerhand wird mein Rad bei den Ersatzreifen verstaut. Wir fahren in die aufgehende Sonne, berg auf und ab auf einer ueblen Piste. Der Bus doest so vor sich hin, als ploetzlich das Amaturenbrett in Flammen aufgeht. Klappe auf und mit einem nassen Lappen den Kabelbrand geloescht. Dannach  laeuft der Scheibenwischer ohne unterlas. Bis er irgendwann ganz seinen Geist aufgibt.

Mit einem Pickup komme ich an die Grenze. Problemlose Grenzabfertigung und ein bereitstehender Bus in die Hauptstadt Kigali. Gegen neun Uhr abens kommen wir endlich an. Irgendwo im Stadtzentrum werde ich abgesetzt. Ohne Plan wo ich schlafen kann. Schnell bildet sich die uebliche Traube an Interessierten, die mir erklaeren, dass es keine guenstigen Unterkuenfte gaebe …

Ein junger Mann kommt vorbei und fragt mich in perfektem Englisch, ob ich hilfe braechte. Ich erklaere ihm nochmal, dass ich eine Unterkunft suchen wuerde. Kurz entschlossen sagt er, ich koenne auf seiner Arbeit schlafen. Wir gehen los. Ich frage mich, ob es eine gute Idee ist, Nachts einem voellig Fremden in einer Grossstadt zu folgen… Den Gedanken haben zwei Soldaten auch und halten uns an. Ich erklaere ihnen, dass alles in Ordnung sei. Sie nehmen trotzdem die Daten von Tawaz neben mir auf. Ich entschuldige mich fuer die Probleme, die ich ihm berreite. Er studiert Informatik und arbeitet in einem Internetcafe in einer modernen Shoppingmal. 24 Stunden geoeffnet. Ein paar Kollegen sind noch da und sie beratschlagen, wo ich am besten bleiben koenne. Am besten wuerde es wohl sein, ich lasse mein Rad im Internetcafe und schlafe bei Tawanz.

Und schon rasen wir durch das naechtliche Kigali auf Motoradtaxis. Afrikanische Grossstaedte sind wahrhaftiger der falsche Oer fuer die allererste Fahrt auf einem Motorad ueberhaupt. Mit wackligen Knien steige ich schliesslich in einer ziemlich verlassenen Gegend ab. Mehrere male einem absolut sicheren Zusammenstoss enkommen.

Wir sitzen ein bisschen in der Kueche zusammen. Tawaz ist Weise. Will aber nicht naeher darauf eingehen, ob seine Eltern bei dem Genozit umgebracht wurden. Viel mehr ist er an unserer Tour interessiert.

Am naesten Morgen werde ich von der Deutschen Welle geweckt. Tawaz hat scheinbar den Internetstream gefunden. Mit dem Motoradtaxi geht es wider zum Internetcafe wo wir das Radholen und uns auf den Weg zu den Bussen nach Ruengeri machen. Tawaz organisiert mir einen Minibus, der auch mein Rad unterbringt. Ich lade ihn zum Fruehstueck ein. Geld will er nicht annehmen und so schenke ich ihn, meinen virenverseuchten 4Gb USB-Stick, mit dem Hinweis, dass er ihn Formatieren muss. In Sambia waren alle im Internetcafe scharf auf meine Sticks. Als wir zum Bus gehen sehe ich am Strassenstand haufenweise 32Gb-Sticks.

Tim wollte laut seiner letzten Mail abends ankommen. Ich erreiche ihn auf seiner ruandischen Nummer nicht. Wirklich sorgen mache ich mir nicht. Ist erwachsen und geimpft…

Der Mechaniker des Ruandischen Fahrradnationalteams Maxime laed mich abend ein, ein paar Bier mit amerikanischen NGOlern und dem Deutschen FSJler Michael zu trinken.

Am naesten morgen Klopft Tim wehement gegen meine Tuer und ich wache verkatert auf.

Jocks Werkstadt erweisst sich als kleine Oase inmitten all der China-Raeder die hier rumfahren. Rennraeder haengen an den Wenden, Laufraeder im Ueberfluss. Aufgebockte Mountainbikes und viele viele Ersatzteile: Umwerfer, Bremsen, Kasette und Ketten. Zwei Sets liegen schon fuer uns bereit. Zuerst wird aber der ganze Staub abgespuelt! Dann machen wir uns ans Werk: Neue Kasette und Kette. Tretlager bei meinem Rad wechseln, Raeder zentrieren. Tims vorderrad Bremse bekommt neue Teile. Theoretisch wissen wir bei den meisten Dingen, wie es geht. In der Praxis erweisst sich dann aber das Einstellen von Schaltung usw. als doch etwas komplizierter und wir nehmen Maxims Hilfe gerne an.

View Musanze – Kampala in a larger map

Am 27. Februar bin ich nach Kapstadt geflogen. Eine Woche spaeter sind wir gestartet. Das ist mitlerweile 100 Tage her.

In dem Zeitraum habe ich 4935 Kilometer an 51 Fahrtagen zurueckgelegt.
Tim hat wegen der Trennung etwa 5500 Kilometer 57 Fahrtagen ueberbrueckt.

Das ergibt einen Durchschnitt von 97 Kilometer pro Fahrtag.

Die laengste Etappe war 143 Kilometer nach Rundu in Namibia.
Tims laengste Etappe war 158 Kilometer von Kabonga nach Bujumbura.

Ich habe 17 neue Stempel im Reisepass.

Suedafrika-Kampala auf einer größeren Karte anzeigen

Wir haben 47 Naechte auf Campingplaetzen verbracht, 15 mal wild gecampt, 25 mal auf einer mehr oder weniger weichen Matratze in Hostels und Guesthaeusern gelegen, wurden 8 mal eingeladen und haben eine Nacht im Gebetsraum einer Mosche geschlafen.

Nach 11.000 Kilometern faengt mein Tretlager unruhig zu laufen.

Nach 13.600 Kilometern gibt es endlich ein neues Tretlager.

Nach 13.000  Kilometern gibt es einen neuen Schaltzug.

Nach 4000 Kilometern in Afrika wird ein Satz neuer Bremsbelaege faellig.
(Tim faerht sie nach 5500 Kilometern immernoch)

Nach 4300 Kilometern gibt es eine neue Kette. Die Kasette war etwas 2000 Kilometer aelter.
Tim ist den hinteren Ritzelsatz seit Fahrradkauf (bis da hin etwa 14000 Kilometer) ungewechselt gefahren und hat die Kette nach 6500 Kilometern gewechselt.

Wir haben 31 Platten und fehlgeschlagene Flickversuche, 2 davon sind geplatzt, 10 gebrochene Speichen, 3 gerissene Ketten und 1 Rahmenbruch hinter uns.

Nachdem mein erster Rueckspiegel bei einem Sturz im deutschen Winter zerbrochen ist, hat der zweite Spiegel die erste Kapstadt-Woche nicht ueberlegt. Den dritten Spiegel habe ich von Tim bekommen, der einen super Dienst leistet um herrankommende Trucks und Busse zu sehen. Er haellt bis heute.

Super zufrieden bin ich mit Keen Klicksandalen. Auch wenn ich sie leider eine Nummer zu gross habe.
Tim schlaegt sich mit den staendigen Reparaturen der Schlaufen rum. Die meiste Zeit funktionieren die aber hervorragend und haben bis jetzt nur einen Sturz zu verantworten.

Ich bin mit viel zu viel Klamotten gestartet, die in der ersten Woche alle rausgeflogen sind. Zur Zeit fahre ich mit zwei kurzaermligen und einem langaermligen Multifunktionsshirt, einem Radtricko, einer Mountainbike-Radhose, einer kurzen Hose, einer langen Hose, einer duennen Baumwollhose, einem Fleecepullover und einer Regenjacke.

Mein Schlafsack ist viel zu warm. Ein duenner, kleiner reicht voellig aus.

Der Benzinkocher ist eine riesen Krankheit. Anfangs zweimal mit Tankstellenbenzin befeuert, dannach nur noch mit Reinbenzin. Duese verstopft aber dauernd, hat dann keine Leistung. Wenn er mit Power laeuft, kann man ihn nicht kleinstellen. Ein Kocher ist in Afrika aber auch nicht unbedingt notwendig. Und vielleicht bin ich von der Einfachheit des Trangias verwoehnt.

On the further adventures of Tim traveling alone and how he would finally meet Fabian again:
Leaving Kigoma was quite a hassle with lacks of communication, scammers, exortioners and most of all beginning symptoms of culture shock.
One would think that making your way slowly into different cultures will help keep culture shock low. This is, at least while cycling, not the case! In contrary, cycling probably makes it even worse but to be honest: That’s also what we’ve been looking for.

I had to hang around Kigoma for a few hours until it finally turned 12. That is because LP-Guide stated that the Lake Taxis depart from Kipiri between 12 and 2 p.m. I had been there the day before and asked about the schedules which left me with 2 p.m. but I didn’t want to risk getting there at 2 and realizing the boats had already left. Also I had nothing left to do in Kigoma anyway, so I waited in Kipiri for two hours.

The problems started with finding the right boat. There where three with all the same people apparently manning the all boats and everybody was yelling in Kisuaheli and whichever language they might else use (except for English) and me with the phrasebook in between trying to figure out which boat was the correct one.
It worked out, they helped me heave the bike on to the boat and charged me 20000 Shillings in beforehand. My wallet fell into the water but praise be to the inventor of waterproof bills!
I know you’re not supposed to be the ferryman before you reach the other size but in that occasion, with the people yelling in Suaheli, gesturing like wild and waving with documents the pressure was just to high. Also due to the lack of communication when I tried to bargain on the price they thought I hadn’t understood the correct price (which by that time I had) and thought I wouldn’t pay at all…
All in all it wasn’t a very pleasant situation and I gave them their 20000 after a while just to get rid of them. That was the quadruple price that you would normally pay for the passage from Kipiri to Kabunga.
Time passed and eventually we, that is me and some 30 other people boarded the boat. Those boats are what you would imagine when talking about refugee barges. They consist of a hulk and a outboard engine which seems way too small to move everybody and that’s it.
All the luggage and cargo is thrown into the hulk, the boat lies a meter deeper in the water and then everybody sits on top of the cargo.
Naturally there’s no guardrail or other safety measures.
The boat on the water is just as crowded as the trucks on the streets.

And then it starts and you’d sit fixed in your position for 5 hours, in my case next to a boy who was totally flattened by the presence of a Mzungu. Touching me to see how I feel like, taking pictures and trying to talk to me with some weird voice which I think was the attempt to imitate American gangster slang. Funny enough he used his normal voice when talking Suaheli with the other ones on board. To do him justice: He was trying to be friendly all the while and actually shared the shade of his umbrella with me. Still I experienced it as rather irritating.
Then everybody kept talking. Talking about me which I assumed from their constant use of “Mzungu”, looking and laughing at me.
I rarely felt so alien as on that boat and it became worse when people started leaving the boat, arriving in their idyllic lake villages.

I would like to note here that all the experiences concerning alieness, hassle from the people and the usage of “Mzungu” where heavily influenced by my growing symptoms of culture shock. I am describing them here the way I experienced it all the while knowing that they are not as bad as I perceived them. Please keep that in mind while reading on and don’t draw the wrong conclusions on the normally very friendly people along the road.

So the levels of annoyance were constantly rising that day and I couldn’t wait to get off the boat and isolate myself from the world. After dark it arrived in Kabunga and a man from the boat who spoke some English offered me to help me find my way around, to the immigration office and a guest house. As said by that time I just wanted to be left alone and although annoyed I kept friendly and did appreciate his help a lot.
Since it was dark already I would have never found my way around that village which is muddy, clay huts and stretches over several hundred meters along the lake.
We walked that way, all the long with Mzungu cries coming from all sides. Finally we arrived at the border, a guest house right behind us, but the man who helped me wanted me to talk to the border official.

The officer was drunk. He smelled like alcohol from a meter a way and that didn’t exactly lift my spirits, things got worse when he wanted to see my passport. I obeyed and just hoped for the best and although drunk the man was – I must admit – very friendly.
In fact he was so friendly (and talkative) I followed a sudden intuition and asked him whether I could perhaps spend the night in his office since this would probably be the safest place in town. I didn’t feel safe in that town at all.
To my surprise he accepted without a second of hesitation and invited me in. He showed me the shower, gave me from their supper and even wanted to free a bed from somebody else for me which I could reject hastily by unrolling my mat on the floor in the office.
With that turning in events I couldn’t help but discarding my general bad mood and be grateful. I had a great night in that office, all the while feeling entirely safe and in the next morning I was the first to leave Tanzania (since I had slepped next to the desk…).
The last thing that happened in Tanzania: I asked the officer where I could change my remaining Shillings. He said there was no bureaux d’exchange but he would call someone from the market. – the black market? – yes. – Oh…
That particular person was still asleep so he advised me to try the black market in Kabonga (the Burundi side of town) and proceed and so I left Tanzania in great spirits.

Do you remember that (joke) picture we uploaded concerning the border post on reaching Malawi? The one where there was that house built of sticks with the immigration sign on it?
If you do you now know how the Burundi immigration office in Kabonga looks like. No kidding.. a hut built of branches, actually no sign, three police officers and a book in which they would write who entered the country.
Since I had the Visa already there were no further complications to entering the country and although my french is fairly limited I enjoyed practicing a little with the officers.
Then I continued, highly expectant of what awaited me in Burundi.

I had heard a lot about Burundi and Rwanda from other travelers, cyclists amongst them, in before hand and it was exclusively positive. I will just give a few quotations here: “You will love Burundi, the people are so kind there. The kids will actually push you up the mountains!”; “People in Burundi are so friendly. The trucks literally invite you to drag you up the mountains.”; “Burundi and Rwanda is only up and down but you can hang your self to the back of the trucks like the locals do”.

After my first euphoria about reaching Burundi, a completely unknown place to me, settled, resignation came. None of the quotations seemed to be right. Testoterone levels seem to be very high in Burundi. Everybody kept yelling at me, especially young men. Ey Mzungu! Ey Muzungu! Ey Whitey! Ey Blanco! For a change they would whistle or hiss. It’s densiley populated. You won’t get out of town for long, there are people everywhere. Ey Mzungu will go on for all day long.
In the morning you keep smiling placidly, waving back and trying to take it as greetings. Later you still know it’s greetings but you can’t help but feeling annoyed. Then you get angry. Why the hell is the only thing people see in you a fucking white guy and then they are even open enough to yell it in your face all day long? I don’t go around shouting Ey black man all day, do I? The constant yelling, partially aggressive, and as sad mainly the being lowered down to the color of your skin really messes with your mind.
I did a 160km that day from Kabonga to Bujumbura, it was tough due to heat and partial head wind, but the worst of that day were those first symptoms of culture shock. I simply couldn’t force myself to take it positive anymore. I tried accepting it as greeting, it didn’t work. I tried what Dennis suggested before (it’s just another way of saying “Tim”) but having your name shouted at you all day long isn’t very pleasant either. I tried ignoring it and thinking of something else but that made things just worse. People then just tend to yell louder and more persistent until you look at them.
I do take a certain pride though about never getting angry at any particular person. Only once I told one educated looking guy who addressed me in english as “white man” he shouldn’t be fucking racist. Oh well…
Anyway. That day hat exhausted me physically as well as mentally and gave me a really bad start with Burundi. I hated it and wanted to get out again as quickly as possible. That said: Especially the lake side is extremely beautiful, the nicest part of Lake Tanganyika so far and although not set up for independent travel there are some high class hotels on the white sand beaches.

Getting out of Bujumbura was way harder than expected. My French by that time was hardly sufficient to take directions from people here, there’s close to no English in Burundi and Kisuaheli and Chirundi are even less on my behalf. Then there’s of course no signage and for the first time not one major road but several separations in town which eventually will join all together again in a giant roundabout on the other side of town. It took me two hours to figure that out and find it finally so – in spite of my original plan to take the first ascend in the early morning while it was still cool – the sun was already burning when I started climbing out of Bujumbura.
The mountains start right at the edge of town and they go directly from some 750m altitude on my map up to 2000m altitude on my map (that’s the lines and therefore not absolutely accurate). Then the road will fluctuate on a height of around 2000m. There’s soldier’s everywhere because, as I later heard, those northern regions are a rather volatile area.
After ten minutes I was literally dripping with sweat. I had already drunk one liter, people passing by stared at me as if I were crazy (but they didn’t shout), the weight of the bike seemed to drag me back down and I caught myself trying to estimate how far I had gotten after not more than two hundred meters.
It didn’t take me long to realize that I wouldn’t get anywhere that day if I continued like that and I started turning back, looking out for approaching trucks.
They came but in most occasions they were too fast for me to catch. Still at the back of every single truck there were four local cyclists hanging on, no matter how fast it was going.
It’s a little scary to see those people sitting sideways on their bike, one hand holding some grip at the truck, the other one free or on the handlebar and the truck will just rush up the hill.
Finally also a truck arrived at which I felt comfortable to hang on to. You’ll shift into higher gears and have a small race up hill with the truck. First you try to keep its speed, then you slow down a little so you get behind it and then you’ll sprint to catch back with it. You’ll ride so close your front wheel is almost touching the truck, you’ll bend over lean forward with the entire body to try find a hold and then finally you’ll get it. All the weight of you and the bike is on your arms then, you’re out of breath and have a hard time catching it again because you’re in the exhaust of the car.
But you’ve finally made it and are rewarded with three cheering locals around you that will start babbling in Chirundi with you.

It was the first time I’d been hanging to the back of a truck. I’ve been clinging to car windows and pick up backs before but the back of a truck is something totally different. Especially in the manners the drivers drive.
I managed to stick there for not longer than five minutes. Then we passed a smaller peak, the truck accelerated and my bike got unstable. I stabilized it again but it got unstable again and I almost fell. I could just manage to let go of the truck and aid with my second hand. But it was close, too close to be honest. Especially since I wasn’t wearing a helmet then.

That was a scary experience and I swore myself to wear helmet as well as gloves the next time I’d try hanging to a truck. I didn’t.
To wear a helmet while cycling up hill at noon is probably as suicidal as it is to hang to trucks without. You get so hot under it that you’ll start sweating even heavier and if you don’t suffer heatstroke you’ll go blind from sweat and fall off a cliff . So if you want to wear a helmet at a truck you’ll need a certain head start to prepare, which due to all the bends you usually don’t have.

I forgot which truck the next one was in particular but I had learned my lessons: First it’s the most efficient mode of “cycling” in the Burundi mountains. Second it’s way too dangerous. Third if you’re holding the handlebar with your right hand (always use your strongest) and the truck with your left never ever under any circumstances let your arms cross. You’ll fall.
So we continued on and the next lesson I learned: Even if a truck accelerates to a speed where it gets tough that usually only means there’s a steeper passage ahead for which it’s gathering momentum. Don’t let go. You’ll regret it.
Lesson number five: If you go down hill behind a truck let go but don’t fall behind or try to take over. You’ll never get back on again.
In most cases you’re fast than trucks while going down hill but their momentum is higher as soon as it goes up hill again.
So what happens is you fall behind or take over and the truck will just rush away from you and you’ve got no chance of ever catching it again. You’ll have to stay right behind it and grip hold again the moment it starts outrunning you.

In the end (is a truck actually a he or an it?) I got pretty got at hanging on to trucks. I could even continue on gravel roads and the last truck I let go was after half an hour when my arm was about to be torn out of my shoulder – or at least it felt so.

The day I was talking about ended after 105kms in the last “town” before the border whichs name I have already forgotten. It wasn’t a particulary pleasant place but I was in an extremly good mood then.
As I had said I started suffering from culture shock upon leaving Tanzania. I really felt bad because people only tried to be friendly and all I could give back was a frown.
I kept pleading for something great to happen to change my mind and that day it actually did. On one very steep hill once again kids started running with me, endlessly yelling “Good morning Mzungu” (although it was afternoon). I didn’t even look at them. I just tried to breathe smoothly which occured to me very hard on that particular hill.
Since I didn’t react the kids thought of another way to catch my attention: They started pushing me up hill!
I never would have imagined it, neither the stories being true, nor those kids actually being of any more than symbolic help, but they were. Half of the weight seemed to be taken off me within seconds and we were literally rushing up the hill with the kids panting behind me while pushing the heavy bike (and even heavier cyclist).
I felt so embarrassed for my arrogant behavior, gratefull for their amazing kindness and within seconds everything seemed to change again. The world seemed lighter, I could finally greet back again and wave to people. I discovered that all the yelling was far less if you waved at them before they yelled.

I slept extremly well that night. I had been totally exhausted, there was a thunderstorm raging across the peaks of the mountains and it was cold. Freezing cold. I had to take a cold shower but then I could cuddle into the fleece blankets and the world was just great.
My positive attitude stayed the next day. Although I wasn’t as euphoric anymore I could still appreciate the people around me and then I finally left Burundi.
I left Burundi with entirely mixed feelings. Firstly it is a beautiful country – extremley densely populated, mountainious with a beautiful lake and tons of great bananas. As for a shortage of flat land the Burundians seem to be close to inventing vertical acreage.
Then the people are kind, especially in the mountains (For some reason I don’t know mountain people always seem to be nicer than those in the flat lands… no offense!). Then on the other hand people – especially at the lake tend to be very yelly. I really don’t know what to think of that country.
It’s definetly not set up for travel and I probably wouldn’t go there again too soon. But it wasn’t entirely bad either, no actually there were some great experiences and people were very honest. Not much bargaining, nobody tried to sell me anything or rip me off.
Well… I don’t know. Mixed feelings, as said. There’s definetly nicer places but also worse. And my opinion is biased by the culture shock.

But enough of Burundi. It’s definetly been worth the experience and I know a lot more about a country I’ve rarely heard it’s name before.
The crossing to Rwanda was once again managed by my passports on it’s own. I don’t know whether I stated that before but my French is only sufficient to ask for prices, directions and tell people I don’t know which document they’re talking about.
The latter is exactly what I did when I reached the border. The official thought for a while, went through my passport, stamped it and I could proceed. We are so amazingly privileged with being German.
Entering Rwanda was still no problem, the officer actually spoke quite decent English. I later discovered that Rwanda had officially changed it’s second language from French to English some two years ago… which resulted in huge chaos in schools and universities.

Rwanda greeted me with a beautiful beautiful road, an eucalyptos alley actually, clean and broad, no traffic no peasants. I had heard that Rwanda was the second most densely populated country south of the Sahara but that was hard to imagine because villages were at least ten Kilometers apart.
I just cycled pleasantly up and down, enjoying the beautiful scenery and once in a while chasing away begging kids. Yes kids started begging here again and in contrast to Malawi they seemed to know exactly what they want. But begging wasn’t too bad and it didn’t disturb me much.
What disturbed me more was that beginning in Burundi you would see “real” poverty. Dirt covered children with clear signs of undernourishment. But what can I do about it? There’s no point in giving them food, especially if they don’t beg, because that won’t give them long term relief and will only result in even more begging.
It helped to comfort myself with our fund raising campaign (that was a hint..) which also provides help to undernourished children in their respective programs.
That said: It wasn’t as if the whole population was starving. Those sights (i.e. undernourishment) were rare and most people are looked more or less well fed.

Later that day I arrived at Huye. I was confused because I wanted to go to Butare and not to Huye and even worse Huye wasn’t even on the map. After a while I discovered that Huye was the old name of Butare and I was in the right place.
It’s a great place: Ice cream, chinese food, hot water, fast internet.
I decided to spend a day there and rested from the intense cycling of the past days. The Rwanda National museum proved to be a disappointement. At least in what I had been looking for (i.e. information on contemporary history). It had great exhebitions on pre colonial times but I know from various german museums how people lived in the iron age and Rwanda was a tropical adaption of that, although iron age lasted here until the 1950s…
The exhibition on colonial and postcolonial time was half a wall with 5 pictures and dina4 vitas of the presidents. That’s it.
I also met Sue and Sandra there, two US citizens who volunteered/worked in Rwanda as English teachers.
Sandra lives in Gitarama, my next stop and invited me to stay at her place which I gladly accepted. They also told me that if you’re looking for information on the genocide you have to visit the genocide memorial in Kigali.

By the time I reached Gitarama the next day and after some confusion had found Sandra’s place it was already afternoon. She showed me the university where she worked and eventually we decided to go to Kigali together the next day to visit the genocide memorial.
We did and it was.. intense. Very very very intense.
Now coming from Germany I’d say I’ve been exposed to quite a lot of post holocaust memorial works, seen many of the pictures and exhibitions and I’ve heard the stories.
Still that exhibition shocked me. It was so good. It could have kept up with every single memorial in Germany easily, perhaps it’s even better than most of them. It’s so intense it it seems to creep under your skin and really touch your soul.
I felt physically sick at times watching the interviews of survivors, seeing the pictures. It is so..
The exhibition is very details in the causes and results and what happened during the genocide. And allthough it gives you all the preconditions it’s still unbelievable how something like that can actually happen. How that switch in human minds can be turned from normal mode into bloodfrenzied monster mode.

Two more things struck me being remarkable about that exhibiton. Firstly there was one extra exhibition on other genocides in history (e.g. Red Khmer, Nazi Germany, Armenia, etc.). And then.. the one that really brought me to the edge of crying: There was an exhibition dedicated to the children who died in the genocide.
Parents had sent the last photographs of their children (not the corpses but the living children) to the memorial together with a short profile.

So you would have the picture of a shily smiling girl or a crying infant enlarged and printed on glass above the profile.

And below:
Name:
Age (at death): 8 months
Favorite Food: Mother’s milk
Character: Weak and small child
Favorite Family member: Sister
Death: Smashed against wall.

There were perhaps 15 portraits of that kind but at the end I was close to crying and glad to get out again. A very very intense experience which I would highly recommend to everybody travelling to Rwanda.

Then the final day to Ruhengeri. Or almost.. the road was long and still mountainous. Worse than ever actually. It also was the most beautiful road, it wound up the long slopes of the 2500+ mountains above fog filled valleys, through bamboo forests and past steep cliffs.
I had to truck driver friends who regularly waited for me at the bottom of hills and so I managed to at least reach the junction of the Gitarama road with the Gisenyi – Ruhengeri road. By that time the sun started setting, it had been some 90kms (although the map had stated 87 to Ruhengeri) and according to the street signs 27kms remaining.
I decided I couldn’t make it if the road continued the way it had been all day long and found a place in a sleazy guest house.

The next day I got up very early to finally meet Fabian in Ruhengeri. I had missed him a lot, culture shock had been returning in Rwanda and I was looking forward to once again cycling and sharing all the experiences with Fabian.
The 20 remaining Kilometers (I had cycled some 7 or so from the junction) took me 30 minutes.
It was only down hill for the entire way … but never mind. I went to the hotel where we wanted to meet the evening before and asked for a Mzungu with a bicycle. They seemed to know immediatley whom I was talking about and actually woke poor Fabian (who was after a night of partying still sleeping) up for me.

We both enjoyed being reunited again and sat for quite a long time in a cafe chatting and exchanging stories and news. Then we started doing our buiseness in Ruhengeri… but that in the next report.
This one is too long already (almost 4,500 words).

I’m sorry for taking so long and posting such a confused and long article. I wrote it in at least 4 different sessions and never managed to finish it due to various reasons. Still… it’s done now and I hope you enjoy it.

Since I’m still trying to recover from diarrhea (which I think I haven’t mentioned here) which has been following me more or less uninterrupted since Kigoma, I’ll be uploading the article on reaching Kampala (where we are now) hopefully in due time.
Enjoy.

Eigentlich wollte ich gerade die Bilder und den Artikel von der Liemba ueberfahrt hochladen. Ein Virus auf dem Internet-Cafe-Rechner hat jedoch den USB-Stick befallen. Die Festplatten und unser verbleibender halber Laptop sind aber sicher und ich werde die Bilder bei der naesten gelegenheit hochladen. Deswegen jetzt ersteinmal nur ein paar Bilder aus dem letzten Monat.

Nachdem diese Woche der Vollmond abnahm, sind die Fischer nachts wieder zum Capenta Fischen rausgefahren. Im ersten Morgengrauen kommen sie zurück, begleitet von einem großen Auflauf am Strand.

The last published article included the conclusions on Malawi. I have to admit that was a little too hasty (although we were only to spend 1.5 more days in Malawi) so there is one more incidence I would like to describe which occured right after we set the article online.
Returning back to our chateaux park camping ground we decided to do laundry (we’ve become pretty proficient with hand washing) and asked the next employee for a bowl. As it turned out that particular man had some kind of speech disorder which I only knew from the time I worked at psychiatry, i.e. he couldn’t talk properly. The only sounds he could issue were nickering and diffuse screaming.
Anyway that man first showed us where the place for washing was. And then he made us understand that he would wash our clothes. He also wouldn’t take any money either as tip or direct payment.
I don’t think that he really understood what we were saying to him because he wouldn’t let us help him or anything but we managed to comunicate quite well while gesturing. And well. He did our laundry. Just out of mere friendliness.

Then because Sebastian asked: Fabian talked to an older boy the other day after joking around with a few kids. We had realized that those sentences used for begging were pretty much the only English those kids now (which is sad enough) and that older boy – who spoke a little more english – apologized for the kids and asked Fabian not to give them money. That said: We don’t give anybody money. Just wanted to mention that. So essentially they’re not really begging because they don’t even seem to know what they’re saying but it’s annoying enough the way it is.
For the adults: I don’t think most of them really care. I dare say in the rural areas they aren’t much more educated than their kids and although it gets less when people grow older that kind of begging goes through all age groups. But most of all they don’t care or react to their kids begging. They sometimes even make them notice us in the first place.

So the following day we then left Karonga. We would miss the lake but at least I for my part also love the mountains so the climb was nice for me. Not so much for Fabian though.
The dirt road was described as one of the worst of Malawi in one of the guide books Fabian’s mom send us excerpts of. I wouldn’t sign that for the first 100km to Chitipa.
There were a few really tough climbs, in one instance it was so steep I barely made it up that passage with out getting off the bike and the road got pretty rocky with rough gravel which makes ascending a pain. But still it’s a beautiful area and we as said I like mountains so it was fine.
We reached Chitipa after 92km, totally exhausted and dropped dead in one of the guest houses. I wouldn’t say it was a quiet night, border towns in Africa never appear to be quiet, but that didn’t matter too much in that case anyway.

The next day took us out of Chitipa to the border and finally showed us what that excerpt was about. It’s about ankle deep sand in which your wheels slip away under you. It’s about pot trenches. It’s about no shade in the blazing sun while climbing up hill for several kilometers. In the sand. It’s about running out of water and making water pumps a key stimulus. It’s about dust on your bags, clothes, legs, bike, face, eyes, mouth and worst of all the gears. Your gears keep grinding, almost wailing in agony and you just wait for them to have their final breath.
We survived and so did our bikes. I guess it was adventure and a hell lot of fun too (especially in retroperspect).
The above applies to all the way from Karonga to Mpulungu. The road didn’t change at all. Or it did change.. but it did not improve.

The day from Chitipa to Nakonde (Zambia, at the Tanzanian border) was supposed to be a short leg of a mere 85km. It turned out to be the toughest day and once again 92km. First we arrived at the Malawi immigration office and could leave the country without any further problems. But things weren’t as easy on the Zambian side. The problem was that there simply was no border. Or there was a border but there were no border officials, no immigration office. Only the barrier (locked with handcuffs). Apparently the police man didn’t want to show up for duty that day so we had to enter Zambia illegally (so adviced by the local shop owner).
We could get our entry permission at Nakonde border.

So we had to get to Nakonde (which was on the way anyway, though we hadn’t intended to go through their large scale immigration offices). Later that day we arrived at a little village at which one of the locals showed us a shortcut to Nakonde. That was the point at which our track wasn’t marked on neither our map nor our gps anymore. We started navigating with sun position and the little communication we could with the locals (point ahead and ask “nakonde?” works sometimes). I think during the course of that shortcut we entered and left Malawi atleast another four more times and eventually we ended up back on the main road, still not quite sure if our shortcut had been of any use. But it definetly had increased the adventure factor .
Arriving in Nakonde itself was an adventure too. By that time it had grown dark and Fabian was totally exhausted. I had made up my mind on reaching Nakonde that day and pushed him a lot and well we made it.
The (still extremly bad) road took us through a slum, it was dark, loud music everywhere. People are drunk on Friday nights (although I’m not quite sure about how much that actually has to do with the day in the week…). But we were back in Zambia so everybody was friendly and helpful.
They even pointed several hotels and guesthouses out to us in one of which we spent the night.

Getting the official entry permission made less problems than expected, actually none at all and at 9 am we were good to go. Once again on our beloved dirt road…
The following day nothing extraordinary happened, at least not as far as I can recall now. Only that I once again realized how friendly those Zambian people – especially on the countryside – are. 92km again that day. I don’t know why.. but every day till then we stopped exactly at 92kms. And the following day, the last day on the sand road, it ended at exactly 92km.

I’d say that fourth day was the most exciting of all. The evening of that day for that matter, the day itself wasn’t spectacular in any way. – oh one remark I forgot: The water we drank out of the pumps was occasionally murky and tasted strangely metallic, sometimes too sour.
When we had left the sand road it was 12km on sealed surface to the junction where the right goes to Mbala and the left to Mpulungu. We ate Nshima at a restaurant there and when we wanted to leave that drunk guy approached Fabian. I was paying at that time in another room so Fabian was alone with him.
Apparently he flashed an army ID and wanted to check passports. Why I don’t know. He said “just to check”. I guess that’s alright but he was drunk and not wearing uniform. But Fabian had already gotten his passport out and gave it to him so I couldn’t refuse anymore.
It’s not that I want to mess with the army. It’s just that for matters of corruption I don’t want to give my passport to drunk army officers that aren’t on duty. Anyway, we got our passports back without problems and left immediately afterwards.
That was our first encounter with the army that day and we stopped thinking about it pretty shortly afterwards.

We were more focussed on the 35km of down hill in front of us. But because the sun was setting we decided not to ride down to Mpulungu that day but spend another night camping wild (and thus saving the money and the descend).
Right after putting up the tent Fabian started to feel ill, complaining about diarrhea and nausea. We didn’t bother too much about hiding our tent that night. We camped some 200m from the main road next to one of the paths leading to villages with a view on the lake.
It took 30 minutes after switching off the lights until we were discovered. We decided not to react and the man asking “Hodi?” and eventually he went away.
Some time later (I lost track of time then) he returned with a friend. I don’t know which one was the one who discovered us in the first place but the one who talked to us in english was carrying one of those huge stone age axes…
He inquired who we were and what we were doing (“what’s your mission?”). The normal questions which we responded to in a friendly way and then he wished us a good night and they both went away.

Matter solved.

Again some time later a car came down that same road. It startled me a little (people don’t usually have cars here, especially not on the farms) but I didn’t think about it, rolled over and tried to sleep. That is for another few seconds until the car stopped, shifted into reverse gear and turned, facing us. Then it started rolling directly towards the tent, headlights turned up.
I hurredly opened up the tent and started waving at the car. Seriously getting run over in my tent in Africa is the last way I want to die…
By that time the car had already stopped and two men got out. Pointing AK rifles directly at me (Fabian was lying on the other “safe” side of the tent). They turned out to be airforce men and we camping on military area. And they were not amused.
It’s a damn scary thing if those guns are pointed at you. They are scary if locked and dangling from the shoulder. They are even more scary if locked and in their hands. And they scare the shit out of you if unlocked with fingers at the trigger.
Good thing is we didn’t know they were unlocked by that time.
We first realized they were unlocked after they locked them after checking our passports, all the while the guns dangling from their shoulders, unlocked, their muzzles pointing at everything in front of the soldiers (namely us).
Also the question of “what is your mission?” issued from soldiers when they catch you camping in restricted areas seems to have a totally different meaning.

We still answered it the same way we always answer it: “Travelling and seeing Africa. Learning about it and finding independet information. Raising funds for Doctors without Borders.”
Especially the latter, together with the physical effort of cycling such a long way, caught their sympathy. So after we had convinced them we were no spies they got increasingly friendly. Still we had to leave that area and camp somewhere else but we also explained to them the problem of cycling at night. So they came up with the following solution:
They would just take us and our bicycles on the pick up truck to the end of the restricted area and drop us off at the next best place for wild camping. And that’s exactly what they did. They even helped me (Fabian was still feeling sick) heave the bikes onto the truck.
And then they drove us through the night.. for perhaps one Kilometer or so to the border of that military area and showed us an even better place to camp. We had a nice little chat, offered them cookies (which they sadly refused) and switched cellphone numbers so we could meet for a beer on Friday. That was pretty much it.. our arrest for espionage.

It was scary as hell when it happened but as soon as the situation was under control it was just absurdely funny. I love this adventure!

Once we had set up the tent for the second time that night Fabian’s condition got worse and he started vomiting. By the next morning he wasn’t feeling much better (although he had stopped vomiting) and my condition was deteriotating. But it was only down hill.
We reached Mpulungu without any further complications, found a place to stay and even an internet cafe which, as long as there is sufficient power, offers fast (!) internet. I then got my share of the diarrhea while Fabians condition was improving and by now we’re both feeling well again. Whether it was due to exhaustion, water, food or just the humid heat down here at Lake Tanganyika I don’t know. But it went as quickly as it came.

Right now we’re searching for a passage to Burundi which should leave at the best the day after tomorrow. As most of you will know we intended to take the M.V. Liemba (the german WW2 steamship which has sunk and been dug up again) but as it appears it runs next week (and then only to Kigoma).
So now we’re looking for a cargo ship to take us.
There’s one leaving tomorrow or the day after tomorrow which I guess we’re going to take but the perspective of taking the passage up west coast (DRC) seems like adventure too. We actually never had that idea but today they offered us a passage to northern DRC (one boat hour from Burundi) so we’re thinking about doing that if the chance arises (still prefering the direct passage to Burundi though).
So basically we’re not quite sure when and how we’re going to leave Mpulungu but I guess we will manage the one or the other way and it will be great.

Next article from Burundi or Rwanda.

Cheers,
one very enthusiastic Tim

Mein deutscher Artikel ist gestern im Stromausfall weggerauscht. Hier ist der unkorrigierte übrig gebliebene Teil:

Aus Malawi konnten wir noch ganz offiziell mit Ausreisestempel ausreisen. Auf Sambischer Seite waren aber keine Grenzer anwesent. Sind dann also zwei Tage bis in die naeste Grosstadt um unsere Einreise nachzuhohlen. Das war auch ein sehr weise Entscheidung:
An einer Garkueche essen wir zu abend. Ein sichtlich angetrunkener Beamter verlangt nach meinem Pass. Weigere mich aufgrund seiner Angetrunkenheit, mangelndem Ausweiss und keine Personen um mich rum ihn zu geben. Als Tim und der Standbesitzer dabei sind haendigt er ihn aber ohne Austausch von Dallar wider aus.
Wir fahren ein paar Km weiter. Wie ueblich kleine Lehm/Strohhuetten. Maisanbau fuer den Eigenbedarf. Wir fahren einen kleinen Trampelpfad rein und weit von der Strasse weg und bauen das Zelt hinter einem Huegel auf.
Eine Stunde nach Sonnenuntergang (19 Uhr) hoehren wir ein Auto den unbefahrbaren Weg entlang kommen. Aufblendlicht. Stimmen auf Swaheli und Englisch. Tim macht das Zelt auf und blickt einer Kalaschnikow entgegen. Soldaten. Paesse. “What is your mission?” die Frage wird uns sonst auch auf der Strasse gestellt. Schon da ist die wahre Antwort Philosophisch.
Im Angesicht von entsicherten Ak-47 wird das ganze aber zur existenziellen Grandwanderung das mit ein paar Brocken Englisch klar zu machen. Nachdem wir sie mit Vesitenkarten, Einreisestempeln ueberzeugen koennen, dass wir keine Spione seien, Rasten die Sicherungen wieder ein. Sie erklaeren uns dass wir im Spergebiet der Airforce seien (wie gesagt, wir liegen im Maisfeld neben einem kleinen Dorf. Kein Schild, kein Zaun) bleiben koennen wir nicht. Zelt abbauen und auf den Pickup. Sind wir eigentlich verhaftet? Die Paesse haben wir wider, was schon mal ein gutes Zeichen ist. Wir fahren den Highway entland. Irgendwann biegen die Soldaten in einen groesseren Feldweg ein, fahren ein Stueck, stoppen und sagen ihr koennen wir bleiben. Also bauen wir wieder das Zelt auf. (Wir sind an keinem Checkpoint oder aehnlichem vorbeigekommen, unsere Karte verzeichnet kein Sperrgebiet und das GPS auch nicht).