I staggered out of the aircraft into the desert like heat of Uganda. I was instantly drenched in gallons of sweat to add to spilt beer and vomit that had been necessary accessories to surviving a third world carrier’s idea of an international flight. I already felt like a hero before even setting foot on African soil. Little did I know that things were to turn much, much worse.
My head still ringing from the aircraft noise and my ears refusing to function at more normal decibels, the immigration officials took one look at my wretched form and pulled me off into a small room. I had the choice of stripping off or handing over a fifty dollar bribe. As I had secreted a month’s worth of essential chemicals in my underpants I opted for the latter. Apart from anything else, the incidence of AIDS is so high in Kampala that it would have been an act of suicide to drop ones kegs and let some gun totting maniac get ideas above his station in life.
The chaos of Africa closed in as soon as the bastards ushered me through immigration. I'd hardly stepped foot in the arrivals area when I was swamped by dubious looking characters who grabbed my luggage and swept me towards an ancient Marina. I wasn’t let out again until I'd handed over another fifty dollars. Strong hints were dropped by two of the huge negroes trying to manicure their nails with foot long knives.
The hotel they dropped me off in front of was full of filth and insects. A fan lethargically rumbled above my head in the dank room, threatening to drop down on top of my madly shaking body. I had propped a chair under the doorknob and opened the last bottle of duty free vodka in celebration of my safe arrival.
The plan was simple. Spend the winter months travelling down from Kampala to South Africa on any small motorcycle that looked suitably dubious enough to appeal to the editor’s sense of adventure. It took several days for me to get things together enough to feel up to venturing out of the hotel. I had already passed word to the receptionist that I was looking for a motorcycle and she had handed me a list of motorcycle shops I could visit at my leisure.
With map in hand I tried to make some progress but was hindered by the multitude of hoodlums who wanted to sell me things, change money or give their sister to me for the night. There was also the question of the scorching heat, it was like walking on hot coals and I could feel the skin on my neck and the top of my head blistering away.
I soon became totally lost, amidst a sea of cardboard shacks that looked like they would blow over if Kampala was ever lucky enough to get a bit of wind through it. I was nearly mugged but two separate sets of muggers tried it on at the same time and decided to beat each other up instead. An army jeep pulled up, grim faced soldiers in ragged uniforms fired a few shots, at kneecap level, to disperse the fighters. I was manhandled into the back of the Jeep and questioned by someone who looked no more than 14.
The atmosphere thawed a little when I told him I was a journalist working for an international travel magazine and they dropped me off in front of a massive motorcycle dealers in the business section of the town. There were a few big Kawasakis and Suzukis on offer, but I decided on a Honda 90, not the scooterette but the C100 style version that they still churn out in Japan but don’t export into the UK market (it looks just like the SS50 moped of seventies fame).
This was an eight year old, ran without any rattles and was generally in a nice condition, down to a well oiled chain, new sprockets and Taiwanese tyres... I didn’t expect it to rain so that should not have been a problem. Three hundred notes poorer I was soon fighting the machine through the urban sprawl filled with choking fumes and utterly insane drivers of dilapidated vehicles. I narrowly avoided impaling the front wheel on a bumper that fell off, not that surprising as the road surface felt like an earthquake had tossed the tarmac up in the air and let it fall back down every which way.
Lake Victoria, a massive sea of water that borders Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania, was the most obvious destination. First I had to pay off the hotel, load up the massive rack on the Honda with three suitcases and fill myself up with some necessary medicine. I already had a wobbly stomach after ingesting some of the muck that the Africans call food and the need to continuously fight off the heat with bottle after bottle of local beer. I had noted the quaint way the hotel had with tap water and empty water bottles...
The little Honda’s suspension was down on the stops with about 20 stone of rider and luggage on board. This didn’t make much difference as the suspension had probably been cheap and nasty when brand new. The way the machine was thrown about was reminiscent of a day out at the dodgems; also an adequate description of the average driver’s mode of forward motion. There were also irascible pedestrians who liked to jostle each other off the pavement into the path of my front wheel and children who ran and screamed into the traffic, wanting to wash windscreens and sell papers.
After a while I just let the chaos roll over me; I didn’t have much choice as the brakes faded away to nothing and the gearbox became stuck in third, the machine unable to run below 35mph without the whole chassis undergoing a potentially expensive jarring motion.
Once clear of Kampala things didn’t get any better as there were an excess of army vehicles speeding down the centre of the road, sending carts, peasants and myself careering off into the bush. The little Honda didn’t take kindly to such impromptu trail work, trying to shake itself to bits and giving my body a thorough going over. I was stopped by the army three times before I hit Lake Victoria's northmost tip and had to pay varying if small amounts of bribes to avoid having all my luggage looked into.
I had noted various encampments of destitute peasants spoiling what would otherwise have been a startling and beautiful sight along the side of the lake but I managed to pull up at a relatively deserted spot. I was desperate for a quick swim so tore off my clothes and jumped naked as the day I was born into the relatively cool water.
From the edge, the water had looked clear but I soon found I was up to my neck in slime. After a minute it became obvious that the lake was used as a sewer for the whole of Central Africa. I waded back on to land, just in time to see a large group of natives tearing into my luggage that they had liberally scattered over the ground.
I shouted a few obscenities at them but rather than running away they pointed at my crotch and burst into hysterical laughter. Picking up the first pair of trousers I came to, and ignoring the teeming ants that had already infested them, I pulled them up and grabbed hold of the first tyre lever I could find.
There was a sudden muted, dangerous silence until | screamed insanely, in death wish mode, and charged them. They sauntered away, clutching my clothes and laughing amongst themselves. What remained could be crammed into a single suitcase. I was. lucky, my passport and money had not been taken.
I had had enough of Ugandans, so headed for Tororo on the border with Kenya. The midday heat was something else, for this was Africa after all and most of the continent was wilting away under the combination of climate degeneration and wholesale economic mismanagement. Tororo was a vaguely amusing town with firearms on open sale.
By the time I arrived there I was out of my head, having quaffed too many multi coloured pills and bottles of beer. My stomach hurt like I had been eating battery acid and I needed the support of the bike to stop me falling over. I had managed to get the gearbox working again, it was only the lever that had come loose, although training shoes were not really up to the job of stamping up and down the box.
Every few minutes there were these huge explosions that shook the very foundations of the town. The first time it happened I was all for diving for cover but by the time I was ready to act I noticed that the rest of the people were carrying on as normal. I assumed it was just the two countries’ armies playing silly buggers, testing if their tanks actually worked.
I was told that the border was closed for the day and that my best bet was to hole up in a hotel/brothel in the town. I don’t know how true this was, as I later found out that the hotel manager was the cousin of the wretch who imparted the information. It wasn’t such a bad deal, they could easily have taken all my money and dumped me in the nearest ditch. Instead, for forty dollars I was installed in the best room the hotel could offer and given my choice of the whores. I didn’t take much notice of the decor because I was supplied with a different nymph every few hours. Ugandan girls between the age of twelve and fourteen are pretty hot stuff, but after that they go off quickly. The next morning I was so worn out I could hardly muster the energy to kick the Honda over. It had developed a nasty rattle and the clutch had become very jerky.
The border crossing into Kenya was the usual African battleground. I ignored the huge queue of ancient trucks, the massed ranks of African traders on mule and cart and the hordes who were crossing on foot, sped to the front of the lot of them and cut up some very irate Africans who were carrying vast quantities of free western aid on their cart, it sort of tottered above them, shaking from side to side, to my distorted vision about 20 feet in the air. I palmed a twenty dollar note into the hand of the custom official whilst the irate peasants shook their fists and screamed abuse at me, It must have been the quickest exit from Uganda in recent history.
The Kenyans had their hands out as well. Insisting that my visa wasn’t valid unless I paid up for an extra stamp and that I didn’t have the proper papers for the Honda as well. I tried to brazen it out but ended up a pair of Nike trainers down on the game. At least the Kenyan government gave some indication of spending some dosh on road maintenance and not being tank mad, but these things are relative and the road to Nairobi was still to leave me bruised and battered.
After about thirty miles of bouncing about on the Honda, which was still capable of a surprising 65mph, I felt the need to pull over. Dropping my pants to release the accumulated abuse of my stomach I was not too amused to find myself eyeing a massive snake which was hanging down from a nearby tree. It was just as well that I was in the proper position for shitting myself. The snake was too intent on snapping up a stoat like creature than ran across its path to worry about me. But I still got back on to the bike in record time. It began to dawn on me that going back to nature could be pretty damn dangerous.
I must admit I had really got into the swing of riding the Honda. It was just a matter of sticking it in top and holding the throttle open. I was perched atop the machine, with a death grip on the bars and a wide, insane grin. I should have worn a helmet but I couldn't be bothered, the heat would have been horrific; it was much more fun to pick off lumps of molten flesh every night.
The roads were both narrow and busy with all manner of traffic that was both totally unsuitable and unpredictable, but blasting on the horn and taking to the roadside seemed to solve most problems. It was a bit disconcerting to have to fight my way through clouds of flies and forward vision through the shades often became minimal as the lenses were inches deep in dead insects.
Running through Eldoret I all but came off the bike when some native ran out of her wooden shack chasing a chicken. | managed to stop the chicken with the front wheel and then skid into the house which collapsed like a pack of cards about me. The ancient crone who was the cause of this international incident had foot long breasts that sagged down to her barely concealed crotch but turned out to have Ninja like mastery of the machete she hurriedly picked up. The Honda was still running so I rode out, scattering the matchbox like wood about me and headed out of the town, the woman screaming abuse at me for what seemed like ages.
As soon as I thought it was safe I pulled into a small wooden bar which was littered with dubious whores and deadbeats who looked like they lingered over their beers for hours. I bought everyone a drink but they weren't very grateful, giving me scowling looks and muttering amongst themselves. After about three bottles of beer I went outside for a piss - the usual hole in the ground African toilet that really should have come with a free gas mask, but enlivened by one of the customers humping a woman up her bum, both a common form of contraception in Africa and a quick way of getting AIDS! It was a bloody enough business to make me throw up a stream of vomit in their direction but they didn’t seem to notice.
The Honda refused to start, so some local urchins were enlisted to push the heap into life, on the promise of a few coins if successful. As soon as the Honda fired up I roared off leaving them out of pocket shaking their fists at me in the mirrors. For some reason I found this hilarious and had great trouble controlling the little beast for the next few miles. Petrol stops were often quite crazy, proper petrol stations being rare, youths rushing up to me and all but throwing rusty cans of petrol over myself and machine in their haste to service my needs.
The 100 miles down to Nakuru seemed to take bloody ages, by the time I got there I was all but sagged over the petrol tank from heat exhaustion. A mile or so on the outskirts of the town I came across two Krauts who were looking just as dead beat, They were two up on a 1000GS which had just gone around the clock and broken its shaft drive in celebration. They had pushed the beast for the last three miles.
The town was full of soldiers firing their guns in the air. If I hadn't been so dead to the world I would have moved on rapidly, but instead rode the Honda into the lobby of the first hotel I came to and spent the rest of the night sitting on the toilet, which wasn’t much fun as it wasn’t in the room and I had to share it with disparage crazies. I eventually got back to my room at six in the morning having lost half my body weight to Lake Victoria.
It was high noon when | made it back into the world of the living, or half dead in my case. I was rudely awaken by the Krauts who had battered past the flimsy lock of the hotel room door and insisted I lend them a couple of hundred dollars to pay for the repairs to their beloved machine, which they had ridden all the way from the Fatherland. They promised all kinds of wonderful things if I lent them the dosh until they could pay me back in Nairobi. I pleaded poverty but they became ever insistent and would have turned nasty if I hadn't hastily grabbed my things and made it down to the lobby.
I opened the suitcase to grab some essential refreshment and found it was full of massive spiders so I flung it across the lobby in horror. A whole horde of disgusting creatures skipped out. I managed to lob a stream of vomit into a nearby ceramic bowl that contained a huge verdant flower which visibly seemed to wilt. I decided I didn’t need any more clothes than I had on my back, and could buy whatever essential liquids were needed en route. I pushed the Honda out into the heat and leapt on to the kickstart in as vigorous a manner as I could manage. Before the town could give any more hassle I sped out, next stop the exotically named town of Naivasha.
Long before I got there the Honda developed a death rattle. I pulled over a couple of miles later in front of a frightful shack which had remnants of ancient mopeds scattered about its front. The mechanic was totally mad. I only wanted to borrow some tools so I could have a fiddle with the engine. He shoved me aside and started ripping the bike apart with a rusty adjustable wrench and oversized mallet. I had to grab hold of him, wrench him away from the machine and kick his legs out from under him. If I'd hesitated the bike would have been reduced to scrap within minutes. I push started the machine, a feat of considerable physical coordination in the state I was in and closed my ears to the ominous engine noises.
Top speed was down to about 40mph and the engine was doing a passable imitation of a fifty year old diesel stuck in top gear climbing a 1 in 2 hill in the exhaust emission area. It was only about 60 miles to Naivasha but it seemed to take the rest of the day. Stops for beer and vomit sessions were frequent and I felt it was necessary to give the motor a breather every half hour. I was cursing my head off at Africa, it had about as much romance as a Cario shithole and I had sworn off food until I could reach the relative civilisation of Nairobi where there was rumoured to be a McDonalds. The basic African diet is about as appetizing as eating dog shit, although it probably has less goodness in it! When it hit my stomach it seemed to triple in size and want to pass straight out through my bowels.
Apart from the usual problems, the ride was relatively uneventful until I was about 10 miles away from my destination, when top speed went down to all of 10mph and a massive tremor ran through the machine which seemed to physically buckle and wilt under me. I had no choice but to stop it before it seized. Bloody Japanese crap, I rather unfairly thought, for the bike had doubtless led a hard life and had many incarnations. Any thought of Zen like meditation was immediately dropped when I realised that | had lost my big hammer somewhere along the route and, anyway, hanging around for a few minutes would have turned me to molten flesh.
I had the choice of pushing the heap or abandoning ship by hitching a ride. In the end, a truck pulled up just as I was about to stretch out in the heat, curl up and die, and offered to run us into town for ten dollars. The bike was heaved into the back of the truck amidst porcine type creatures who tried to bite my legs and farted with a splendour that not even my wrecked stomach could match. The truck’s cab wasn’t much better but it only took ten minutes to hit town, so no great problem.
Leaping out of the truck, the driver started to drive off with the obvious intention of half inching my prized possession. I had to run along behind and leap on to the tailgate. Luckily he missed his shift and I was, in that moment of lost motion, able to leap up into the pigs. When he realised that I had not been left behind he slammed on his brakes which catapulted me forward into a flock of by then completely mad porkies. He didn’t offer to help off load the bike so it landed on the ground with a sickening crunch. I was covered in shit and bites, immediately paranoid that I had caught Mad Pig Disease or whatever it is African porcines suffer from.
I pushed the bike over to a ramshackle motorcycle workshop and waited for its owners to pick themselves up off the floor and stop the hysterical laughter resultant from observing my mad antics. I was so pissed off that I left them to do their worst and hiked around town trying to find a hotel that would let me past the front door. I eventually ended up in a communal flea-pit where the manager’s children took great delight in throwing buckets of murky water over my still clothed body. When the worst of the muck had been removed I persuaded the owner to part with his best suit, a motley affair with huge lapels, massive flares in a horrible shade of mauve. Before I donned it, the bites had been daubed with TCP which stung like hell but must’ve had an effect as I didn’t become any more mad than I already was.
I was so strung out that I found it impossible to sleep, so took to wandering around the town in search of entertainment. Despite its exotic name it wasn’t much of a place but I fell in with a crowd of middle class youths who insisted that the only way to get a feeling for Africa was to have a pubescent Kenyan virgin. With the AIDS scare this made a lot of sense to me, but when I realised that I was meant to stomp up for all of them as well, I rapidly feigned terminal tiredness. I know the whole of Africa is one big charity case but I’ve paid enough in taxes to have a clear conscience on that one.
The next morning I found the mechanics had_ stripped the motor down to about ten thousand separate bits. They demanded five hundred dollars to put it back together and I told them where to get off. I wheeled off the chassis to the safety of the hotel and left them to mull over their future. I bought some tools from a hardware shop and started scouring the neighbourhood for a suitable donor bike. I found one outside a small dealers, the buggers inside were so whacked out by the midday heat that in the ten minutes it took me to cleave out the C90 engine they. didn’t even stir. One advantage of small motorcycle engines is that they can be carried away under arm.
The newish motor purred into life after some minor attention and it was only the slight fact that I would never reach Nairobi before nightfall that stopped me doing the fifty or so miles right there and then. I had become vaguely amused by the hotel's family who were the only really open and friendly people I’d met thus far in my African Adventure. They had taken me in when I was down and out, so I lashed out a bit of money on a huge meal for them that night.
They told me some interesting tales about so-called charity workers who used to come down from Ethiopia to partake of the Nairobi brothels and how loads of aid and money was misappropriated (Oxfam didn't get done for this until 2018! 2019 Ed.). There were several families living off the fat of the land on the back of black market deals in western aid in that very town. The next day I set out for Nairobi, as close as I've come to a song in my heart at six o’clock in the morning. Even sharing a bed with huge, hungry bugs hadn’t unduly fazed me. The Honda ran along exceptionally weil, purring up to 65mph with remarkable eagerness. The rising sun leant a clarity to the African landscape that I had not noted before.
The roads were relatively deserted at that time of the morning and it was not until I hit the outskirts of the great African city that I had to really grapple with the usual African chaos. By the skin of my teeth I made it into the centre of town. Huge skyscrapers helped block out some of the heat, the antics of the car drivers were bizarre in the extreme, they drove like they had just been plucked out of the empty fields and placed behind the wheel of their vehicles. Their refusal to slow down for red lights almost had me tailgated until I realised that you were supposed to ignore all the traffic signs and just smirk at the madly gesticulating traffic cops.
One classic accident happened when some half drunk sap tore off in his ancient Yank heap, only realising that he had dumped the engine in reverse when he crunched into the front of vehicles coming the other way. As I slipped the little Honda through the mess I counted over 50 cars that had been smashed up... car insurance probably isn’t available, judging by the way the drivers rushed out of their cars and started thumping each other. An army helicopter buzzed overhead, decided it wasn’t worth the bother and roared off somewhere more interesting.
I decided my stomach needed a weeks rest and recuperation, so headed for the best hotel I could find but they wouldn't let me in... something about being covered in grime, dead insects and dust, as well as smelling like a sewer...
Al Culler