Loretta Henderson – Page 15 – Solo Female Cycling Around The World

What Motivates The Long Distance Cyclist?

A guest post by WOW(WomenOnWheels) Cyclist of the Month- Antoinette Morgan

Since my childhood days I always liked cycling. We only had one bicycle that we shared between 4 kids, but I always won the fight for the bicycle. Additionally, I learnt that the best way to provide my sister privacy, when her boyfriends came to visit, was to ‘bum’ their bicycles for a ride. In those days youngsters did not have fancy cars when courting. Yes, I hail from way back in the previous century.

One of the first things I bought myself when I started working was a bicycle. At college most of my friends wanted to buy their first cars, I reckoned that if I owned an apartment and had a bicycle, I have everything that I needed. In fact, I only bought my first car at 28, although I had my drivers’ license since I was 18. Everywhere I went I cycled, I even took my cat to the vet in a back pack on my bicycle.

It had always been a dream of mine to cycle from Cape Town, South Africa to Port Elizabeth (800km), which I did in 1986 with friends. This was a supported trip and I always harbored a wish to do a solo, self-supported trip….owning panniers just seemed so cool.

Then just before my 30 th I decided to move to Johannesburg. Not a cycle friendly city, geographically as well as attitude wise. Although, I still wanted to do cycle touring. I traded my racer for an all terrain bicycle, I studied maps and then shelved the idea because of work expectations. In fact, I shelved it so well that my bicycle did not see the light of day for years. The only thing I kept doing was to read about cycle touring.

Then in 2005 I landed in hospital with an emergency hysterectomy, 3 days in the hospital (I was let out a day early because of good behavior) and 8 weeks of bed rest. ‘Rest’ did not seem like a good idea. I was ‘forced’ to read to keep busy. After reading Anne Mustoe’s Cleopatra’s Needle, I was so impressed by this 69 year old that had done 9600km by bicycle, I thought to myself if she can do it at that age, I can cycle to Cape Town. Then I promptly thought what a great idea, I think I’ll do just that. At that stage I have not cycled for years and it was still going to be 2 months before I would be allowed to even look at my bicycle, but my mind was made up. I was going to cycle to Cape Town. I used the rest of my recovery time planning my trip and figuring out exactly what I needed to do. I pestered my doctor to tell me when I could start physical activity. Off course, he was most curious as to why I so dearly wanted to start training, when I told him, he just about fell off his chair.

My first training was not cycling, but walking. I was seriously unfit. Everyday I walked 5 KM’s. I did this for a month before I could start cycling. My first cycle outings were not very far. At first, I was so impressed with myself that I could manage 15km’s. I was adamant that I was going to cycle to Cape Town, a 1600km bicycle tour from Johanesburg. I would have celebrations every time I managed to add another 5 or 10 kilometers to my distance (not even on a daily basis). The day I managed to cycle 60km’s I thought I was the bee’s knees. I stuck to my plan and in June 2006, I set off to cycle to Cape Town, solo and self supported.

While on my way to Cape Town, I decided that cycling through Europe could be fun. I had never been overseas and what better way to see Europe, like a real European. Before I reached Cape Town, I was already well into the ‘planning stages’ of my European trip. So in 2007, I cycled 2500km solo and self-supported through North Western Europe (main land only).

Other Adventures?

2008 – I did a 4000km Scooter trip on my 150cc scooter (yes all on my own).
2010 – After a 400km kayak trip down the Orange River, with a friend, I picked up my good old trusted steed and cycled 1300km solo along the back roads of the Northern Cape and the Kalahari desert all the way to the Sendelings Drift.
2012 – I tackled the Northern Border of Namibia on a 1600km solo and self supported bicycle your from Ondangwa to Livingstone via Ruacana, doing the wild camping thing and having a blast.

What’s next?
I sill want to cycle through Siberia. I had hoped to do it as a treat to myself for celebrating my 50 th this year, but I believe that the great universe has its own plans. -Antoinette Morgan

Looking for motivation to get off your duff and do something in 2013?

Check out the WOW (WomenOnWheels) Wall

Hemorrhoids and Heatstroke…Top 5 Outstanding Reasons to Cycle In the African Rainy Season

Number 5

You can cycle for days with a t-shirt shoved into your pants while hoping your now big bottom will create padding between your 3 headed hemorrhoid and your hard leather bicycle seat.

Number 4

Push the pedals up 30km hills with your blackening toenails while sweating like a hooker on a Saturday night in rain so heavy you are convinced that zebras must know how to swim.

Number 3

Enjoy camping inside a police compound as the flirtatious, intoxicated night guard named Lovemore insists on asking you where you are from again and again to only forget you have already had that conversation with him just minutes ago at 2:37am.

Number 2

After getting busted, find yourself in a debate about bush camping under a tree “technically” inside a wildlife preserve after sleeping there only because the posted price at the “official” campground seems to have inflated by 5 fold because you have showed up. Then have the once open gate locked in your face after trying to apologize and pay while holding back a long feisty sentence concerning the minimal differences between you and the many villagers who are also sleeping under trees in the immediate vicinity.

Number 1

Because it is all part of a day in the saddle of a solo female cycling around the world on a Cairo to Capetown adventure.

Check out the 2013 WOW(Womenonwheels) Wall many updates!!!

Is It Better To Wrap Your Legs Around A Boy Or A Magic Bicycle?

I have shagged the boss and now I need to find a new job…I am looking for something more extraordinary” Bridget Jones famous words echo through my amused mind as I sit on Chizumula Island, Lake Malawi, Africa waiting for the second replacement set of gear cables from the infamous not so reliable world wide shipping malorky from SJS Cycles in the UK, a story for another post. Now back to the various leg wraps…….

(Please enjoy these photos that have nothing whatsoever to do with the words in this blog post…However, FYI, I have been having loads of fun with the new Canon Powershot G12 camera, thanks Dad for sending the packages out to me, you are a great Dad)

With another birthday approaching this month, and my singleton status firmly embedded into my “hard on all types of relationships” lifestyle of constantly rolling on for the love of travel and quest of cycling a line that rounds the world, a grand debate has taken hold of my fearful horny old maid almost 40 year old mind. Is it better to wrap your legs around a boy or a magic bicycle? Why the hell DO I choose to cycle tour solo? Something that has been heavy on my mind due to my upcoming interview for the BBC solo women in sports news hour.

I will be the first to admit that getting chased down the street by some mind baffling lunatic in Ethiopia who clearly did not understand that he could not have a visit in my pants, left me digging deep for an alternative solution to the attention from a couple of local perves. Finally, after all other passive wise cracks and humorous hand gestures, I resorted to threatening the last of the willy wielding skeevey perves with a coke bottle. Which sent him running off, at least then the correct individual was the one running,I reasoned to myself as I pedaled Pandemic The Magic Bicycle south through East Africa with an injured sense of humor and Willy my x-L knife at the top of my panniers but otherwise unscathed.

After getting robbed of laptop, camera, gear etc in Tanzania, halting my writing and the WOW (womenonwheels) wall, it was time to retreat from the road, time to find something else to do with my time. I had to wait for replacement gear cables and packages to replace my gear twice this past 7 weeks anyway. So find something else to do I did. I tucked away at the Wakwenda Retreat on Chizumulu Island, Malawi to volunteer at the lodge, swim everyday, gain some needed weight, see a dentist, dry out the tear ducts, cook for guests, carry some rocks for a new chalet, offer unasked for managerial advice, oh la la with the boss, and repeat. What can I say here, I could never stay away from the boys and what is the point of retreating unless ALL hedonist pleasures of thoroughly covered.

After having pedaled 30,000 km ( at best guess) in the last 3 ½ years, it is not my legs that I have been resting, it is my sense of humor and questioning whether or not to continue this adventurous some times lonesome life on the road. Is 3 ½ years of continuous solo touring too long? Was this world line not supposed to be covered over my lifetime? And, not about taking my first ever punch in the face in Ethiopia and cycling through the strong “rob me now” vibes of Tanzania. Almost, grateful to finally be robbed on the African continent and end the suspense. Practically offering people money to NOT hit me with a rock, machete or hold a gun to me and to just take what they want and leave me standing with a smile. Which, I am truly grateful that they did.

Do I recommend East Africa by bicycle Cairo to Capetown, you will have to ask me later. But, will I carry on to Capetown with a repaired sense of humor new gear cables, gear shifter, camera, laptop, fresh gear etc? YES, after celebrating a moldy 40 on Chizumula Island, I will head out choosing to wrap my legs around my beloved bicycle once again heading into the rain season from Malawi across Zambia, Namibia and then South to Capetown with a fresh gregarious giggle pondering the many pros and cons of riding boys and bicycles.

Robbed In Tanzania

That brown door does not look right, I think to myself as I stand facing my guest house room door, the lock has been broken, I have only been gone for about twenty minutes, I think to myself as I gently push the door open at the Baranga Guest House in Kibondo, Tanzania. Everything I own has been scattered onto the bed. The dirty white top sheet is covered with the contents of my three panniers and sprinkled with the red dirt from the arid rough road.

I lean down over the mess to take a quick inventory of my belongings. As expected, Prozac (my laptop) is missing, my camera gone, bicycle pump, sleeping map, sleeping sheet are gone, etc. “This is not looking good”, I say out loud to myself as I realize that madness has permeated my reddening tear ducts, the brown door with rusty hinges is still open. The housekeeper walks by and smirks. I close the door with Willy (my enormous knife) in my hand, mad, crying, a little bit scared and hoping that the robbers will not be coming back. I sit on the dirty bed amidst the cluttered remains of my belongings and try to sort out what has happened.

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2 hours later, two police officers arrive. The utterly unhelpful senior officer is drunk, and laughing. The round chubby housekeeper with the red bandana remembers seeing two men but doesn’t know who they are. Yeah right, I think to myself. The boy in charge of the reservations swears he was not there. Good one, I think to myself as I tuck my lips into each other, trying not scream BULL SHIT. I say goodbye and close the door, the hinges creak as I shut the door. I maneuver Pandemic the Magic Bicycle’ pedal between the wall, the bed and the door in order to latch the door securely shut. The lock is broken.

I sit on the dirty littered bed in the mess, still crying and justifying, rationalizing and convincing myself that I knew I would eventually get robbed and I always just hoped the robbers would not hurt me. I am not hurt, this is going to be ok, is this not some strange right of traveler’s passage… as robberies go, this is not so bad… I think to myself not yet, but almost laughing. And, in that moment sitting on the bed at the “scene of the robbery”, I realized that I am not crying about Proscak (my laptop), camera, photos, video and writing lost, camping gear or other material possessions but at the irony of having only gone to the Baranga guest house in Kibondo in the first place to get some sleep.

Madame Mzungu

“Mzungu, Mzungu,”

I hear joy hollered from the road side as I cycle past raising my tired arm from the grips of the dusty handle bars struggling to form another droopy hand wave. It is possibly the 137^th wave of the morning as the word “mzungu” imprints into my psyche. Uganda is the most welcoming joyful country I have pedaled in some time …although technically speaking these insanely happy people are calling me names, I chuckle to myself. I then pull over to the side of the road to say hello to the elated road side crowd and to take photos of more uniquely bizarre creatures. A pair of 3 foot birds with protruding double chins are stumbling around the lime green terraced hillside amidst long horned cattle. The birds are acting like drunken sailors avoiding bovine obstacles in search of a drink.

“Hello my name is Madame Mzungu”,

I say as I stretch out my freshly freckled arm to greet the brothers who are standing to the front of the group. Their rounded faces, sparkling front teeth and crab apple cheeks are uncontrollably grinning. Their dark shiny eyes dance as their bellies humorously jiggle. The morning light shines through the younger brother’s iridescent curly black hair. His brown Barrack Obama t-shirt is proudly tucked over his belly into his jeans. His torso shakes uncontrollably as he laughs at my introduction.

My new name, Madame Mzungu is a joke of sorts to keep me sane and energetic amidst so much well meaning roadside attention. Choosing to self entertain and give up on cycling too many KM’s after the 138^th kind, welcoming, sweet person of the morning insists on hollering for me to stop to say hello from the road side. I try to remember something I read about Uganda as I stop once again to chat with new friends. In the 1980’s under the bludgeoning rule of Amid, Uganda was put on the map for mass killings and giving all Asians 30 days to evacuate the country. The Ugandan spirit has weathered well although due to it’s past, the country still sees far fewer visitors then neighboring Kenya and Tanzania. Therefore, everyone is happy to just have a visitor to chat with.

“No Madame…”

The man wearing the Barack Obama shirt says laughing so hard he can hardly catch his breath to continue…

“You see, during the time of colonization, Ugandans had a hard time pronouncing the European peoples given names and invented the word ‘mzungu’, it means white person. The word has been past down from our ancestors and people laugh when they say it because it is a funny word to get out of the mouth”

“Oh…right on, Madame Mzungu is happy to hear that, although I am more pink then white due to my equatorial sunburn”, I say peering at my sun baked hands as the contagious sound of the young man’s bellowing chuckle uncorks my laughter. I feel in that instant how unusually funny I must appear in his eyes, standing over a bicycle with neon pink skin, taking photos of a herd of long horned cattle, his dinner. After a chat about Barack Obama, a hugely popular man in Africa, how to care for healthy cattle, how much we all like matoke, Uganda’s traditional cuisine of boiled plantains with peanut sauce, I say my goodbyes and pedal on heading over the dusty but lush terraced hillside towards the Rwandan border.

Crotch Rocket…Finding Romance While Travelling

The hardest part of travelling is the goodbye. It definitely leaves me wondering why as I pedal on with an awkward smile and an uncomfortable all too familiar tingle in my chest. I should be good at this after 3 years of goodbyes, I think to myself as I straddle Pandemic The Magic Bicycle outside of the urban campground in Kampala, Uganda. “It’s been nice meeting you, I gott’a go, the equator is 80km from here…just up ahead” I casually say as I wave to an older ozzie man, a retired musician with long comforting arms. I have known him for only 4 short days.

A man with whom, a speedy romance has taken some strange but temporarily satisfying form. I feel as if I have been hit by a crotch rocket of emotional intimacy, 0 to 90mph in 4 short days. I never could stay away from the boys, I giggle to myself as I look up from my repaired cycling sandal, my shoe is lashed together with first aid tape and super glue and clipped into the rusty pedal of my magic bicycle. As I cycle off, I push my scratched sunglasses over my straining face, my chest pulls inward to only remind me once again…no strings attached, it is the rules of the road, it has been a fun few days… every good-bye opens a new door blah blah blah….have men not been playing women like this for years?

As my darkening yellow and white cotton shirt flaps in the smoky humid breeze of urban exhaust, I leave the city limits in search of the equator and a bigger set of denial soaked testacies. I pedal along for 80km to the equator amongst old motorcycles and trucks in need of carburetors. New tunes copied from Mr. Crotch Rocket, the musician beat from my MP3 player as I celebrate my manly attempts at stoic emotional non involvement.

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As I sit at a café at the equator sipping instant dark roast Ugandan coffee pondering my future days as a horny old maid, a swarm of tourists arrive by the mini bus load, 5 middle aged couples topple out of their vehicles for their photos at the equator. Their matching beige safari hats shade their wrinkled smiling faces. Their years of togetherness are easily recognizable by their highly recommended by the tour company adventure red polo shirts. Their ¾ length holiday pants flare from their elderly calves to their comfortable walking shoes. They hold hands and lean into the memorial sign for their holiday snap shot at the equator.

One man, his brimmed hat dangles from a string on his neck, his eyes squint into the sunshine, notices me sitting in the shade of the café sipping coffee and smiling at his tour groups’ photographic enthusiasm. Pandemic is leaning near the giant cactus bush, against a weathered wooden post under the Equatorial café welcome sign.

“Where have you cycled from, where are you going?”, his smile stretches wide in encouragement as he raises his camera from his pocket and begins taking photos of Pandemic.

“I am trying to cycle a line that goes around the world, I started 3 years ago, long story short, I have pedaled west on the world map from New Zealand…” I unenthusiastically utter, even boring myself today with the repetitive nature in which I repeat my own story.

The man’s eyes begin to sparkle, perhaps hoping for heroic tales of Himalaya Mountains climbed, Middle Eastern deserts crossed or African wild animals I have narrowly avoided. I vain a faint smile at his endearing support and say,

“I just spend some time with some new friends I met in Kampala…you know what the most challenging part about trying to cycle around the world is? It is all the friendship missed, it is all the goodbyes.”

Friendly+Uganda=Too Much Fun!!!

Somewhere in far western Kenya in the village whose name I did not catch I was adopted, taken in by a hard working nurse named Margaret at the local mission clinic. Clients with malaria, dysentery, typhoid, some 9 months pregnant line the cement porch of the makeshift hospital, a series of concrete and wooden buildings with sporadic electricity. Patiently, the villagers wait for their turn with Margaret.

Margaret, her plump spirited smiley face and shiny short curly hair tends to everyone who comes to her for care. 24 hours a day Margaret works caring for the communities health concerns. Margaret sees me on my bicycle near the entrance gate and she openly invites me to camp on the clinic grounds inside an extra delivery room, a wonderful shelter from the rain soaked humidity that echoes from the rain soaked hills near the Kenyan/Ugandan border.

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As the full moon sparkles through the cracks of the wooden window, I set up my tent listening to Margaret preparing the room next to me. She is bringing large blue plastic jugs of water, numerous candles and mopping the floor with a grassy stick. She beams with anticipation going from my room to the next as she tells me she is expecting to deliver a baby because the full moon is good for new babies. I fall fast asleep.

In the morning, I open the door of the delivery room where I camped and peer into the open cracked wooden partition of the room next to me. I smile and say good morning to Margaret and a group of glowing new mothers, grandmothers, sisters and cousins taking turns holding their newest community member. Margaret tells me that the new baby girl is very tiny but strong with a good heart, Margaret had delivered the baby by candle light. I mention how well I slept and that I didn’t hear a thing. Margaret tells me that Pokot tribal women did not make noise when they deliver and they do not use drugs.

I thanked Margaret for the too short of visit and offer her a thank you gift of hydration salts, paracetomol and ibuprofen for malaria fever that I had in my bags. I say goodbye and cycle towards the Uganda border.

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After the border formalities, I pedal to Jinja delighted by the Uganda welcome. The Uganda spirit equally as kind of the Kenyans with an extra splash of sunshine, the children wave and holler hello and the adults flag me down to say hello. Musical beats of African drumming and rhythmic hip hop pound out of every available shop. You have got to love a group of folks that always seem to feel like dancing, I think to myself as I cycle and smile at folks hanging out by the shop doors dancing while sitting, bopping while selling fruit, and singing while driving by me on their motorcycles.

If Africa kindness and good times stay this pleasant it might take me quite some time to pedal through Uganda into Rwanda for there are an awful lot of wonderful people to meet along the way.

Bandits and Bras…Securing Support While Cycling In Bandit Country

I am going to have to start wearing a bra if this corrugated dirt road doesn’t improve I think to myself as my flimsy torso bounces off Pandemic’s seat, my airborne body hardly landing vertical back on the pedals. My bum, insect bitten from peeing outside is also bruised. I feel as if I have been continuously spanked from attempting to cycle from Lodwar to Kitale. This road is getting to be a real pain in the ass, I chuckle to myself as I make my way into Kalengmorok village. I park Pandemic and waddle into the restaurant for some lunch and a break from all the bouncing.

At lunch at the hotel/restaurant I sit eating stewed brown beans and ugala, a wet cake like stable food made of maize flour. A friendly man wearing a world vision t-shirt and freshly pressed grey pants comes over to say hello. I ask him about road security, I read on the internet somewhere that N.Kenya south of Lodwar, is an area known for banditry. The often savage nomadic Pokot tribe occasionally infiltrates the Turkana tribes territory and shoot at passing vehicles. “Insecure area misses”, I am told for the 5th time in 2 days, choosing to pedal forward through the area asking the locals at every village on route about banditry, “I will find you a truck for the next 80 km”, the man with the world vision t-shirt kindly insists. Truck verses magic bicycle, always a tough decision for any circumstance that removes me from the bicycle I always see as a less appealing form of forward travel and always a plan B.

Hesitantly, wondering if perhaps the locals are just being a little overly cautious, I board the truck with 5 obliging jovial guys who are on a delivery south. We sit 5 a crossed in the cab truck as if 2 front seats are truly designed for a least a half dozen people. Pandemic is secured in the truck bed as we make our way forward down the bouncy road. The conversation is light hearted, welcoming and fun as we sweat all over each other and holler back and forth over the noisy racket of clanking truck metal and flying road rocks.

At a military check point, a metal security barricade is strewn a crossed the road. It is made of recycled metal bits that have been welded into sharp metal teeth. It is designed to puncture tires and/or stop all traffic for a routine security check. A man, I named Rambo joins us as we crawl over each other into every available seat space. There is always room for more, I think to myself as my shoulders fold over each other, my hips poke into the soft thighs of the guys who are pressed firmly into me like book ends. We are happily sharing each other’s personnel body space, odor and communal humidity.

Rambo is armed with a circa 1980 automatic weapon, his military green attire and large laced calf high black leather boots hop on board the truck with us and I am told by the laughing locals that are security just got better. Rambo cocks his gun, the noise is loud enough to capture everyone’s attention. I curiously peer down as our guard loads the ammunition clip securely into the weapon. He large strong hands firmly clasp the gun, on full alert he looks out the window, he tells me he is ready for anything. About 20 minutes later, Rambo turns into Rampunzle and falls fast asleep. His sweaty shiny head bops about as his loaded gun wobbles around about a ½ foot from my knees. This security problem may be a bit over rated, I laugh to myself as I bounce along wondering how a sleeping gun might help improve our safety in bandit country.

The seemly comfortable grinning man spilling over my right shoulder blade explains the road situation. There are several sections of road between Kalengmorok and Marich each about 5-10 km long that are known areas for banditry. The locals do not like to travel these sections. People from rival clans hide in the heavily forested sections of road and shoot from the canopy of Acadia trees at ongoing traffic, robbing local motorists of their riches. About 80 km later in the village of Marich, I jump off the truck and begin to pedal again. I wave goodbye to the truck load of make shift security personnel who are venturing south to Kitale. I will bounce into Kitale in about 3 days time, happy to arrive by pedal power with loads of elbow room. Stinking of my own sweat I will cycle through the Marich mountain pass on a safe road through Western Kenya heading towards the Uganda border.

The Kenyan Border…Through Granules Of Sand To A New Land

I am percolating with a certain kind of elation that I have not felt in some time, hit by a wonderful speed ball of energetic happiness. I crest the final hill into Konso village as a new day begins over the glowing emerald green hillside. The tropical southern region of the Omo valley, Ethiopia is where the cotton and banana industry blossoms as I cycle through the humid region.

Smiles at sunrise abound as children wave hands instead of sticks. Adults dressed in traditional rainbow striped skirts, a short hem indicating marriage and log hem indicating single, crowd the curb less roughly paved street. Wow, they must of discovered a pot of gold, I think to myself, as I grin at their colorful attire. Their excited welcoming smiles radiate like a contagious fever as I begin smiling so hard that I crack my sun burnt lip.

The barefoot women carry bundles of fresh green chat, the traditional plant used like chewing tobacco on their strong backs and hearty heads. A plethora of beige spotted cows and a kaleidoscope of goats crowd the street as I slowly navigate through the herds of noisy livestock.

It is market day for the smiling beautiful mix of Konso hillside tribal folks. Trucks full of plastic Chinese shoes and western men’s clothes have traveled from as far as Somalia and Kenya for the weekly cultural market.

“Good Morning” , a very sweet and way too thin man named Dominican says, his eyes twinkle with sincerity, as I stand straddling Pandemic in the middle of the street amongst the market mayhem. I am looking around for a breakfast restaurant.

Dominican and I spend the day eating traditional Ethiopia foods, such as injura, a thin flat bread made from fermented teft flour and lentil stews. We drink jabana traditional coffee with his many friends, my arm happily tires from shaking hand after hand.

Dominican calls his friend and helps me purchase Kenya shilling on the black market so I can venture through the remote Lake Turkana border crossing into Northwest Kenya. I do believe I have found my slice of utopia while bicycle touring in Ethiopia, happily embracing the Southern Tribal region leaving the mystically bizarre overpopulated Northern area behind.

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The mountain road crests upward on a gradient that over powers my thighs, too many mosquito, spider and sand flee bugs have swollen my left eye which only complicates my blurry half vision. I push Pandemic up the crest of the final steep 25 km hill, in the distance the village of Key Afar Village awaits. Hammer and Banna tribal people who live in circular grass huts are dressed in goat skins, they necks are heavily decorated with colorful plastic beads. Topless women wearing animal skins as skirts venture home after their travel to the local village. The men carry their AKA 47’s strapped a crossed their chests. Deep scares endured by lashings as a part of a coming of age ceremony indent their bronzed darkened chests. The heavy metal weaponry adorn their tribal markings. There welcoming smiles glow as their arm bracelet made out of recycled metal shimmer in the heat of the midday heat.

There is a long standing tribal conflict over nomadic territory between the Kenyan tribes and the Ethiopian tribes, a recent lethal mugging of a clan man over his AK-47 and fishing territory on the western side of Lake Turkana is dinner conversation as I camp at the Christian mission after a long day of cycling and pushing Pandemic through the sandy remote border crossing at Omorate, Ethiopia/ Todenyang, Kenya.

However, cycling in the deep sand was surprisingly easy with the help of about 2 dozen village children pushing me. After the sandy sections became cycleable, they took turns riding the magic bicycle. One boy wearing a short tattered cloth wrapped around his waist pushed the pedals backwards instead of forwards as I realized it may have been his maiden voyage by magic bicycle. I then began pushing the children on the bicycle supporting the weight of the bicycle and heavy gear in my arms. The smaller children sat on top of the gear on the back rack as I attempted to push and pedal on the coarse sandy trail.

Killings and tribal clashes are personnel in nature and a bit hard to believe from all these warm people who seem very happy to have a visitor in this sandy arid corner of the planet. Unfortunately, since the influx of cheap guns from Kenyan border countries tribal clashes that used to be resolved through discussion are now resolved through shooting and often death. Personal conflicts that do not involve a solo woman bicycle touring on a magic bicycle or the kind welcome that I have received as I continue south down the western side of Lake Turkana deeper into Kenya.

A Cup Of Humanity

As I push forth through the final hill on the outskirts of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, the firewood carriers have captured my attention. Women, bundles of firewood strapped to their mule shaped backs. peer down into the shadows of the mountainside. Their tiny strong thighs stride forward up the road to greet another day. Fueled by nothing but biscuits due to a rotten food encounter, Pandemic The Magic Bicycle continues to cycle upward through the mountains into the surprisingly modern city’s edge.

However, I cannot focus on my own pedal pushing endeavors. The fire wood carriers, as refered to by int’l human rights group, are baring the steep gradient barefoot. Is there not an alternative. Could the needed firewood used for cooking fuel not be obtained more humanely? Where are their husbands to help share the weight? I think to myself. Multi-generation mule type activities imposed on the family’s females has heightened my emotions many times before while pedaling through Asia, the Middle East and now Africa.

Angered by women’s slave like circumstances in many places in the world, I climb. Overwhelmed by their stout determined roadside stride, I climb. Confused by accepted genre roles in many cultures, I climb. Amongst frowning females and the occasional grin of a ignorant to an easier life youngster, I climb. With the modern capital city of Addis Ababa in plain view I descend, an age old traditional Ethiopian coffee in the city a waits.

“I want to open an orphanage to teach boys how to be men”, I am enjoying famous Ethiopian coffee in the heart of the city with an Ozzie man with a dream. “What do you mean?”, I ask, although after seeing women carrying loads of wood and other goods on their mule shaped backs for weeks, I am fairly certain I know where this Ozzie with a dream is heading.

“Women bear the brunt of the heavy lifting and daily work, men here are lazy”. I sit happy to have found an evolved mind, and smiling to have not ranted my angered rowdy feminist thoughts first. Struggling to accept with any amount of support what I continue to see, like a firecracker to it’s first flame, my westernized mouth explodes. “I don’t understand why people don’t realize that a job like carrying huge quantities of wood every single day would be accomplished far easier if everybody helps, although, what these tiny women can carry is truly remarkable.” The Ozzie man with a dream simply grins and says, “Yes, I want to open an orphanage so I can teach boys how to be men and teach them how to treat women with admiration and respect”. With my grateful enlightened grin fueled by a cup of humanity and manly wisdom, I pedal up another of the world’s hills in the remarkably modern capital of Addis, Ethiopia

(Shortly after writing this I picked up the local English language newspaper, The Reporter. Inside was an article about the firewood carriers. Turns out while collecting the days firewood there is also a rape problem. If they have the money they can bribe the guards in the forest not to rape them. Most can’t afford the bribe.)