From South Sudan, we traveled east, into Kenya. The border town is Lokichogio, nicknamed Loki. When things were at their worst in Sudan, the United Nations and dozens of NGOs were headquartered there to disseminate food, shelter and medical aid. Loki’s airport was said to be busier than Nairobi’s. It’s an ironic sad story, to Loki, peace brought an economic catastrophe. Most of the NGOs have left. The airport takes in but a couple flights.

Traditionally, the people of northern Kenya were pastoralists. Many still are. They are called the Turkana. It was not uncommon to see a man with a bow and arrows tending to his flock of goats. The women are bare-breasted with giant colorful rings around their necks. We were on shinny bicycles with a lithium powered water filter and a computer navigation system listening to satellites thousands of miles away. It was a contrast that escaped no one. They would beg for food, water, anything.

Desertification, high birth rates and economic opportunity are transforming their way of life. From Loki south there is one road. It is dotted with towns overflowing with migrants attempting to escape a rough life dependent on the whims of nature.  NGOs are omnipresent. Most vehicles are Land Cruisers, stamped Norwegian Relief Council, Caritas International, World Vision, etc. It’s something you see all too often in Africa, the hopes of whole towns pinned to the West’s charity.

it was baren.

the Turkana people are pastoralists, traditional to the t

a camel!!

often times towns are not electrified. it's like a visit to Colonial Williamsburg, but real.

Kakuma Refugee Camp

Turkana man, Kukuma, Kenya

restuarant, Kakuma, Kenya

it's dry season; the rivers are empty. they do not build bridges. the road ends, then restarts.

host, Kakuma

is he going to bar or to the butcher?

host family, Lodwar (note the satelite dish!)

downtown center to the provinical capital, Lodwar

chicks are so cute. then they turn into chickens.

it was really hot and really really sunny.

deserts are pretty, just bring enough water.

Burundi rarely makes the news. It’s a nation about the size of Massachusetts, but with more people and extreme poverty. It’s the twin to Rwanda, same ethnic strife, Hutu vs Tutsi, same Belgian colonial legacy, but Burundi is poorer and more forgotten. In the entire country, we saw but one working traffic light. From the Tanzanian border, the road was dirt. Our hiking trails are in better condition. In Burundi, most children suffer from chronic malnutrition. I have never been in a land so poor.

People were surprised to see us. Outside of the capital, especially closer to Tanzania, people would cheer as we cycled by. It’s like we were famous, like we were world class cyclists, like we were doing something noteworthy and important. And in a sense, maybe, we were. One man told me that I was the first white person he’d seen outside a car. It was just incredible.

At every little town, a crowd would gather. Once, the police asked us to move because the crowd around us blocked the main intersection. They would stare and gawk and sometimes manage a few questions in English. They asked us where we were from. America. America! They asked us why we were in their village, their town, in Burundi. We come as tourists. Tourist? And they would shake their heads, like they knew what the word meant but they’d never seen one before.
read more…