Laisamis Secondary School

Yesterday, we pulled into a town where the TDA has camped over the years: Laisamis. This is a small town on the rugged road, rocky and corrugated, from Marsabit. The community is home to a few schools which draw their pupils from outlying settlements, including subsistence farmers who eke out a living from humble herds of cattle, goats or camels. 

Our tour leader made contact with the headmaster of the local school and arranged for an evening Q and A with the boarding students at the secondary college. Randy introduced the session by explaining TDA's purpose and history to the assembled student body. Once we told the youth where we were from individually, we broke off into groups where personal contact was easier. 

The young folks asked many good questions about Canada, our government, our economy and the life far away. In response, I queried them on their The contrast between a Kenyan public school and a Canadiancould not be more stark. The school here has a generator to power the lights but often lacks electricity during the day. Washrooms are outdoor latrines without running water. The library has few books and the "textbooks" are dog-eared and out of date. 

One could improve the quality of education with a simple investment of modest resources. The staff, including the headmaster, seem committed to the delivery of a rich curriculum and they are doing so within a spartan environment. My presumption is that the elite of Kenyan society can send their children to international schools in Nairobi. With the exception of a small group of pupils who are identified as gifted early on, the post-secondary options for the teens here are quite limited. 

School uniforms are standard issue. The spirits of the group seemed to be high. At the close of the evening, they performed an exuberant dance and sent us off to our tents with best wishes. Though distinguishable from western adolescence in many ways, they share so many traits with their affluent counterparts. One common element is the love of English Premiership football and the Arsenal club. 

Transit Time

The risk management at the TDA discovered that a stretch of road in central Kenya has been prone to robberies of tourists. Consequently, Randy decided to transit the group. He notified us in advance so that we could prepare for the day on the bus which arrived from Marsabit early this morning. It resembled the classic magic bus of yesteryear.

It was a relief to be spared another stint of washboard bumps on dirt track. After half an hour, the rocky surface gave way to tarmac and we cruised through Archer's Post, a market stop, where folks rehydrated and indulged in chips (French fries). 

As we left camp, we distributed our leftover food to some locals. They were very appreciative and the sight of fruit was a treat for them. The diet in remote parts can be limited to the corn meal and fresh slaughter. In the bin, we had plenty of bananas. Chapatis and bread rounded out the offerings.

The look on their faces tell a story. Each person draws inferences from these expressions. Suffice to say that we take healthy food and potable water as given. For many here, the essentials are not assumed as a daily right. Perhaps this is why some request food rather than money or another form of gift.

  

Consumer Society

Each town has its own bazaar. Here in Marsabit, there is a rabbit's warren of stalls that sell vegetables, fruit, electronics and cheap plastic products of every description. The Nomad Hotel, a Muslim establishment, offers a menu of local and western food. Bars run by infidels serve Tusker, Belozi and Pilsner. In those dingy dives, you can see men chewing qat or kat, the leaves which induce a high in the chewer.

Cars line up to convey villagers to parts beyond. These vehicles are laden with provisions for families living off the beaten track. And there appears to be no regulation regarding the number of passengers. Common practise includes packing the truck or pickup to capacity and then finding room for more goods, people and animals. White tourists are amused by these sights just as local kids are amused by the camera-wielding foreigners.

The Sisters of Marsabit

We finished our ride from the border post through the galgulu desert yesterday. The road, alternatively paved or under construction, covered a notoriously rough stretch of lava rock. Mercifully, the pain engendered by such corrugated surface was diminished by the road work being done. Massive culverts are carved across the road at regular intervals, necessitating portages on grit, stone and sand. At day's end, we slowly peddled around a volcano that introduces one to the market town of Marsabit. 

Our accommodation is the convent of the Diocese of Marsabit. It is off the road in an enclosed area of civility. The good sisters anticipated our arrival and had generous portions of snacks and beer for sale. Business was brisk. The nuns were pleased.

The grounds contain buildings named after saints and one can eat at the dining hall for the modest sum of 500 Kenyan shillings ($6.50). Many riders opted for shared rooms and access to a warm shower and other amenities. Those who prefer camping could pitch their dusty structures up in the common area. Of course, our bovine company use the space for grazing. If one has food in one's tent, it is fair game.

Kenyan Security

Political clashes afflict many localities in Africa. We are in northern Kenya, having crossed the border into an area beset by tribal strife. We were assured that our campsite at the Kenyan Wildernss camp in Moyale would be secure. Indeed, the only sound we heard overnight was the call of hyenas. Speaking of which, a massive hyena was road kill yesterday and we all gawked at the corpse to identify that it was indeed a hyena. 

In Kenya, our four local staff are armed. They are called tourist police and yet they look like soldiers. Here they are beside the camp truck last night at our lava rock camp. If you look closely, you can see their AK-47s. They will accompany us to the Tanzanian border.

Our first and only transit will be a day from now as we will board a bus to circumvent an area south of Marsabit where bandits are shaking people down for anything of value. And then on to Nairobi. The desert terrain we have passed has given way to rolling landscape with acacia trees and more wildlife. The camps will be closer to population. The sunsets will be spectacular.

Border Crossing

After a full month of cycling and camping in Ethiopia, we leave the country with a mixture of anticipation and relief. It is indeed a fascinating nation with a complex history, both ancient and recent aspects thereof. A book has been going around camp entitled Notes From the Hyena's Belly by Nega Mezlekia, an Ethiopian who sought political exile in Canada during the time of the Dirg, Haile Miriam Mengistu's regime. It has given us insight into some of the phenomena we have experienced. Suffice to say that the country has great potential and massive challenges, not the least of which is a burgeoning population in a land vulnerable to drought and ravaged by deforestation.

We bid farewell to the often gracious folks with whom we have shared fleeting moments. May the country evolve in a manner that feeds, educates and cares for all.

And may the beasts of burden be treated well too.

Interrogatives, Imperatives, and Expletives

Imagine you are cycling on a road. It is paved and intended for motorists. On either side of the road, there are acacia trees surrounded by scrub extending for kilometres to the horizon. The vehicles moving in either direction are sporadic. Buses and trucks are the common motorized movers of people and goods. The balance of trafficconsists of humans, often children, and animals.

As you roll along, the inevitable questions come: Where are you go? What is your name? Are you fine? I am fine. My name is Cam. Yes.

The first question is grammatically incorrect, so the pedantic amongst us can instruct the asker to add an "-ing" to the verb to make the present progressive. The second inquiry begs the question why someone who will see you once, for a fleeting moment, would want to know your name. The last question presumes that people are generally fine. 

We want to engage and so the pat response is one of openness. A smile is usually returned as one can see above. They are curious. We are objects of curiosity. As foreigners, we are conspicuous and so we are labelled. Sometimes, the mentality of the locals is one of demanding material: money, a gift, a pen, a book, anything.

To give a local any object in response to a command does not help. It encourages the misguided sense of entitlement that has been engendered by years of "ferengi" aid. This issue of the merits of "aid" is worthwhile. With respect to the reality of Ethiopian aid, I learned a lot during a conversation with a bright Peace Corps volunteer working in Yirge Chefe, a town famous for its delicious coffee. 

The young American woman I met told me of her commitment to the local mandate of family planning, safe sex instruction and health care. She has developed a stance of realism rather than outright cynicism. The latter attitude, in my view, encourages a sheltered, insular view whereas realism suggests that "progress" can be made in the battle to educate. My friend referred me to a book entitled Debt Aid. I intend to read it. 

Those of us who grow weary of the inane commentary from the locals and some of the hostile behavious choose to ignore it. Others react in anger. Profanity flows both ways. It is regrettable but all to human. The F word can be heard throughout this beautiful and sad land. The old man below had been verbally abusive to our group and a few of his countrymen, Fitsum, Moule and Ephram, had to remove him from our camp.