...:::Brunei Trans Africa:::...

Kenya,

Friday 3-8-07

   The border crossing was fast. We need an insurance for Kenya. Already at the Tanzanian site was the broker following us.
   "only 75000,- Kenyan shilling" he wanted for two weeks . We settled for much less. No visa was needed for Bruneian but Austrians
   had to pay. One hour later we were on the road towards Nairobi.

We heard bad things about trickery, of "break in" even while in go slow traffic. Thieves run next to the car and force the doors open.
We decided just to drive through. Still we had to use main roads where the traffic was terrible, policemen gesticulated us twice to
stop but we pretended not to see them and drove on.

Nairobi Traffic:" stop - go - stop"

Through villages on dirt roads we circumnavigated our way over the ever green highlands, where coffee is grown and milk cows are
herded in fenced farms.

Milk is a good business up here; and operated by whoever has the opportunity. Even in the smallest compound one can see these
milk and cash providers. As long as there is space for the cow and a bicycle is at hand the fodder will be provided by heir master.

Hay for the lazy milk cow resting at home

Highlands villages

     And as so often Norhayati found time to make some kids happy with new slippers and guess what? We found a hospital and
   an Italian sister which accepted happily the Eva Wolfgang donation of another US$ 50.-. "The poor do not need to pay here.
   Mille Grazie. Can I know who is the donor?" "It's from him" Harun said and pointed upwards.

The hospital and some help in sisters hand

     Driving hours, passing village after village our curiosity was alerted by these signs of which we share a few with you . It seems in
   Christianity there is allot of confusion. As if one way to the Almighty is not good and another much better.

"How come that there are so many different churches in Kenya? " we asked at a lunch the owner of the restaurant.

"It is very likely because of money!" " Money?" "Yes" and he explained : "Call yourself to priesthood if you are a bit smart and
struggle along in life searching for an escape and school was always far from you. Make your own church."

   "What ?" "You hear right! your own church!" he repeated. " And that is easy; First, you must pack out where you have grown up, go
   into another village, as you know ,back home your words have little value. But somewhere else you can act with authority. You need a
   little investment for a signboard, a bell and a bible. Maybe you got one from your former church. Mount the sign above your village
   hut, put yourself into a white coat, do not mix with women and chime the bell on Sunday morning calling for prayer. You shout out:
   "Praise the Lord" . The first Sundays you might be alone."

   "But soon out of curiosity the first visitors comes. Now tell them this your church is the one which gives true happiness here and in
   life after and everyone believing in your church will get rich soon. "How does he know?" the people will ask. Now your second man
   maybe a companion from your former home or a relative, comes in. He will whisper behind the hand : " An angel comes to the
   reverend almost every night in his dreams, he is a chosen one". The rumor spreads fast."

   "You become a man of God. "Klingelling", the coins pour in at every mass in your collection bag. The money comes from your
   congregation. Soon your hut is too small and a little building has to be made; a bigger place, the future church .You perform
   confession before the mass and sins are pure cash.' to grant forgiveness (absolution) the sinner has to pray but also donate for the
   church! The bigger the sin, the more prayer and money." And he continued:

   "If you are called to the dead bed more better so. everyone wants to go to heaven. "You have land? consider giving it to my church
   otherwise you never know hell is waiting ...." .and when he includes your church in his last will, you raise your hand in prayers
   "Blessed be with you, your sins are forgiven..."   Bad only for the man if he recovers, his property is gone for good. And further:

   "You know there is no taxman checking your income. Who will dare to doubt a man of God? No accountant will ever knock your door.
   to control the spending. A good system it is indeed! Three dollar for the church and one in your pocket."
   Nothing is better than a business in faith; and that is why there are so many of them. History had shown how rich a church can
   become. just look at the Catholic one. Your options are endless".... " But that is devilish!" We said: He shrugged his shoulders.
   Wiser we looked now at all those signs on our way further up North.

The drive to Isiolo town was on tarred road. We stopped at the roadside as some gravel hills were visible, and to look at the operations.

From boulders through him to gravel

Are you dear reader thinking that your job is hard work? Think twice! Look at this man, his tool is a hammer with it he crushes the
boulders to gravel. A human breaker for life. Or as long as he can lift the arm. Day in, day out , for months, for years.

   We settled late evening at a camping place a few miles before the town. It was a quiet night in our "Hotel De La Jambo, " Next by,
   two South African Land cruisers on their route via Uganda back home "Do not take shower!" The South African warned us. He
   experiences an electric shock while under the hot water.

Saturday 4-8-07

     We left early our camp to continue further North. It was the whole day on a road not worth to be called one. From the begin, Stones
   and ditches, then more stones and more ditches. Until Marsabit, a small town which never saw a tarred road, it was a distance of
   260 km for which it took us 10 hours through lava fields, the stones' like little chisels chopping on the tiers.

the road of worries Marsabit town main square

     Around 6.00 pm we drove into the Marsabit National park for a deserved sleep. Mighty trees provided shade and sleeping home for
   a group of Baboons. They retired up there when it got dark. And not to forget; a younger white woman in a Toyota pick up pitched
   tent with her two African male helpers. No,No, do not think that.

Marsabit National park headquarters and some of our neighbors, Baboons.

Sunday 5-8-07

It was early morning, the baboons had left their trees and went on the daily route for food. picking the greenest of grass. After a
quick breakfast we left too. Standards drop drastically the farther one comes North in Kenya.

a "fine hotel" flees and lice's for free should you stay there Dry riverbed crossing

Lets talk a bit of Kenya. It is since 1895 is a British protectorate with all the pros and cons attached.

   Around the beginning of the century white farmers moved in, and ancestry land belonging to Africans was taken, leaving inferior
   patches for the bumis, (sons of the soil). So called "hut taxes" were imposed which could not be paid, therefore the bumis lost their
   land. Already in 1915 the Brits were using almost all the fertile land and with the tool of racial segregation (you are black you cannot
   own property) they cemented their position. But injustice creates trouble by itself and the formation of national resistance which
   climaxed in the Mau Mau movement, which was later on crushed. Such a rebellion goes right into the bones, the Brits shocked,
   declared an emergency, (always a useful tool to circumnavigate freedom and justice). Trying to improve this ugly situation, the
   restriction of African cultivation was finally lifted.

In 1963 Kenya became independent.

   It is the great rift valley which slashes the country North South. West are the the central highlands and the East slopes down to the
   sandy shores and fine beaches, of the Indian ocean, where tourism is today a major exchange earner just as in Tanzania.. A great
   forest once grew inland but converted into money over time, today only grassland remains. Further North, the soil becomes sandy
   and therefore little grows.

   The Brits enjoy a string of military basis there (SOFFA) from the time before independence to defend their dwindling empire in the
   African bushes or anywhere else, as the case might be. Every year a 1000 soldiers train in Kenya we were told by a guy while
   resting in Archers post and he had more to tell. A rather unpleasant story.

   For many years now, young brave soldiers of the crown are send to this place to train in warfare. Aiming, Shooting and crawling
   trough thorny bushes and acacia trees which anyone avoids except the camels which due to the split lips reach the small juicy
   leaves.
   And as it happen, unexploded ammunitions left in the bushes, are found by Masaai or Sambburu herdsman or their children.

One or the other time, it just made "Bum" and often a young, short life ended abruptly. 4.5 million English quits squeezed a
lawyer out of the British defense ministry as settlement for such mishaps. That was painful already but worst is yet to come.

He took a deep breath and continued:

   "In 2003,a hundred Masaai women trekked to the British High commission in Nairobi coddling about 40 pale looking offspring
   against there scarlet robes. They claimed those kids are product of soldiers rape here around Archers post.
   They want justice and money. Another 600 women line up for the same claim."

   A meticulous investigation by the Brits and Kenyan Authority concluded: "That nothing is true, all police records are forgery and the
   women are only after British taxpayers money. And the pale almost white kids must be from comfort women, ladies of the horizontal
   trade, and as such entitled to nothing." As an example, a preposterous lie is also the claim of the girl Rahama Wako 16 years old,
   claiming when collecting water on a well, she was approached by six whites in uniform with tattoos on arms and blackened faces.
   They rape her, one after the other. These are all liars." thundered the Brits. One wonders what is the truth. Baboons do it in the
   open. But one male to one female at a time. And here this "infamous girl" insists, six civilized men were over her...Impossible!

Since 2005 the women seek justice in the UN. (Report of Amnesty International; Internet.)

The place of the infamous accusations

After Isiolo the road North was a drivers nightmare. stones, more stones an endless washboard. After archers post, JAMBO
endured the worst so far of the whole Trans Africa journey. Lava fields and Emptiness, for hours no other vehicle was seen.

roads in upper Kenya,

     Let see what goes through the mind of a driver in these remote locations, knowing very well, if anything happen here it could be
   the end. Why? Banditry. We have been offered police protection and declined as there is no seat in the car. The last police stop was
   at archers post. The police here mean business One is forced to halt, looking at the spikes .

police control after Archers post you stop for sure. The road to Ethiopia

Further up we met those camels protected by herdsmen, kids with guns

A Kalashnikov in a boys hand

What are the thoughts and feelings while driving bad roads in the Kenya outback?

We are alone. The steering holding with both hands. You must drive 70km/hour or more otherwise the car rattles to pieces. Very
slowly is the other option. But we must reach Moyale the border town before nightfall. The road is rippled like a wash board.

   You drive concentrated. Your mind must not drift. Safety is paramount. Do not look left or right, just in front down to avoid sharp stones
   and find the smoothes way for your tiers. The eyes are wide open and begin to burn after a while. You dare not to blink too often, the
   car reacts sluggish on the gravel therefore you turn the wheel in time and swing with the car around sharp stones which could cut
   the tire walls like a butchers cleaver, Another stone avoided, another and so forth. Thanks Almighty!. You think nothing else, only the
   road, "This journey must have somewhere an end." you tell yourself. You learn to read the road." Ah in front the road color changes,
   get darker, a washed out depression. Slow down, it could be deep from the last rain. Careful, slower! Yes it was a big hole. Well done.
   After miles, the road became fine sand, we can go fast, must go fast otherwise the car get stuck. Then oh, misjudged. Another hole
   not seen, heavy JAMBO falls with 50 km into it, in a split-second jumps out like a wild horse. You hold the steering with iron fist! The
   tires bang onto the road and you must stop to check. You worry as this is not the place for a damage, help is far away. You have to
   get out of the car and look at the tiers, They are OK. Or is there air escaping? NO! Spring broken? You look under. NO! "Thank you
   JAMBO; but we must be more careful."

A victim of the road

     You start the engine again. Is there a new noise? You listen ! Is the engine running rough now? Or are my senses playing trick
   with me? Oil pressure? OK. Temperature? OK. Slowly you get the guts to accelerate again. With reddish burning eyes you drive for
   more hours a never-ending journey it seams to you. But then a police post again. "How far is to Moyale" "7 km." You are so grateful
   for the good news you give him a tip.

   We reached Moyale at 2 pm afternoon. the town is split in the middle by the border. Chop out passport and carnet in Kenya, drive to
   the other side. Under a barrier a sign : KEEP RIGHT. Yes from now on, the traffic flows on the right side until Pakistan if I remember
   right.

From a wooden house approaches a plain cloth man. "You have visa?" "Yes sir!" he checks the passports with a sour face.

"You must wait until 3.00 pm when Immigration open." Harun asked compassionate: "You are not in good mood today, what
happen?" The man just grumbles something.

   We parked the car and waited. Moneychangers approached and we used the time to find the best rate. The man was sitting next to
   the wooden hut. it was hot, so Harun took a cold apple juice from the fridge walked over to him and said : have it for a better mood."
   The man said nothing.

   When it was close to 3 pm we walked to the Immigration office to wait for the arrival of an officer. Guess what? It was him who open
   the door asked us to sit. Took the passports run them under the computer scanner, called another guy, gave him the passports with
   some instructions," bang bang" we had our arrival stamps. To customs next, it took 15 minutes, nothing checked.

When driving off, he was sitting there again. Harun smiled at him and show the thumb up, smiling he made the same hand gesture
and we were on route towards north in Ethiopia. It was 3:30 on a Sunday afternoon.

Dear reader, should you like to follow us then click Ethiopia.