Friends: Unlike Uganda, where nearly everyone speaks at least a modicum of English, hardly anyone I've encountered so far in Tanzania speaks the mother-tongue, even though Tanzania too is a former British colony and most signs are in English. I'm 50 miles into the country and other than at the immigration office, I have met only one English-speaker so far, the 50-year old manager of a gas station here in Bukoba, as good-hearted a person as I've met in my travels.
As I paused in the heart of this good-sized, lakeside city, looking this way and that hoping to spot a restaurant, a tall, bald-headed gentleman wearing a white shirt asked if I needed help. This was no tout. His sincerity was unmistakable. I had a number of things I was looking for beside a meal--a bike shop, an Internet cafe, a bank, a grocery store. My new friend Mbasa said they were all nearby, but before searching them out, I had to eat, as I was starving.
I had camped in a small forest 25 miles back and hadn't had any food other than a couple of bananas and an energy bar. I stopped at the first two restaurants I saw as I entered Bukoba, desperate to get some food into me, but neither were serving yet. That's when I learned how scarce English-speakers are. In Uganda I could have easily coaxed some eggs from those cleaning and prepping the restaurant, but not here. Mbassa confirmed that few Tanzanians speak English.
After a hearty breakfast of eggs and chapati and orange juice we headed to the nearest bike shop, just a block away. I quickly learned that Mbasa seemed to know just about everyone in Bukoba despite its size as the second largest city on Tanzania's portion of Lake Victoria, longer than Uganda's and Kenya's combined. We had to go to half a dozen bike shops before we could find what I was looking for--a 700 by 28 tire. Surprisingly most had 27" tires, and a couple of the shops tried to sell me that. If I were desperate, I could have settled for a 700 by 35, a fairly common size for the heavy-duty bikes that predominant here.
Even though I'm not even 500 miles into these travels, I needed a tire as I had unknowingly scraped a small hole in the sidewall of my front tire and suffered a blow out on a steep descent when the rim overheated and the tube slightly bulged out through the rupture. I could hear a scraping sound moments before the explosion. I figured I'd picked up a thorn or a nail and began braking to extract it before the inevitable flat, but not soon enough.
If it had been a normal puncture through the tread that would have been easy to patch and not so calamitous. But a ruptured sidewall is a different matter. I could temporarily cover the hole in the sidewall with a dollar bill, but the tire was weakened and slightly bulging at not only that rupture but at another thin point in the sidewall. I managed 80 nervous miles since the flat to Bukoba, and hoped I didn't have to push my luck any further.
I was also in need of a couple of spokes. I broke a crossing pair on the non-freewheel side of my rear wheel, no doubt thanks to the pounding of those all too many fiendish speed bumps. I had brought three spare spokes, so was down to just one spare. When the spokes broke, I can't say. Early one afternoon I heard a clinking sound coming from the back of my bike. I stopped to investigate, assuming something had come loose. But no, it was a pair of broken spokes. I could have been riding in such a condition for any number of miles.
Other than having to tend to my bicycle's woes and the shortage of English-speakers, Tanzania has been treating me well. I was able to easily wild camp for the first time on this trip. Tanzania is nearly four times the size of Uganda, which is the size of Oregon, but has only 37 million people, six million more than Uganda. Immediately upon crossing the border I was greeted by patches of forest and wide open unsettled countryside. I could breath easy knowing that I wouldn't have to luck into a wild camp site, as I only manged to do twice in Uganda.
It was no fun though having to pay an unanticipated $100 in US currency for a visa at the border, twice what Lonely Planet said it would cost. Lonely Planet was also wrong about the location of the border post. It said it didn't come until the first town 30 kilometers into the country. When I stopped at the first immigration office I saw at the border I assumed it was the Ugandan office. But I had managed to cross into Tanzania without realizing it. It was actually Tanzania's immigration post.
The Tanzanian official went outside with me and pointed out the Ugandan office a couple hundred meters away. When he noticed where I had parked my bike, he cordially said, "When you return, could you park your bike somewhere else. Your bike is leaning against the national flag."
It was the quietest, most nonchalant border crossing I have ever experienced. I was the lone customer at both posts, small two-room cottages that were easy to miss. Nor was the border teeming with money changers. One offered his services, but I had already managed to change my money with the friend of a woman at a small grocery store where I had stopped for a final drink and loaf of bread on the Uganda side of the border. I had discovered the night before my few remaining slices had grown some mold, not surprising since they were several days old and no doubt preservative-free.
There was no shade outside the store, so I asked the woman if I could sit on a stool behind her counter. She was happy for the company. Like everyone I have encountered, she couldn't conceive of what I was doing. She asked me if I was doing research. I told her I was in a way, though not in any official capacity." She blurted out to each of her customers, "This man has bicycled all the way from Entebbe."
Bicycles are quite common, much more so than present day China, but only for short excursions. The vast majority of bicycles are Heroes from India. Few riders are strong enough to power these one-speed tanks up the hills. As I approach the longer, steeper climbs, I frequently see a string of people pushing bikes, some with loads of a hundred pounds or more of bananas or water or wood or passenger.
Mbasa has just come by and said the owner of the gas station would like to meet me.
Next up: goat and rice lunch with 60 HIV orphans, who I've been invited to give a lecture to on my travels.
Later, George
Friday, February 19, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Rest Day in Mbara
Friends: At first glance Mbara would not seem a particularly appealing place for a rest day, a ramshackle city still showing the scars of having been invaded by Tanzania in 1979 in retaliation for Idi Amin invading it. But for my purposes, Mbara is just fine. It has Internet, a restaurant that serves pasta and no tourist attractions to distract me from giving my legs a full day off.
I tried to make my last three days on the bike recovery days, limiting my mileage to 50 miles a day, but the steep hilly terrain has made each day as demanding as an 80 or 90 mile day, further depleting my legs. I am counting on a full day of respite to restore their pep.
Mbara has the cheapest Internet I've encountered. There are Internet cafes all over advertising twenty shilling per minute rates, sixty cents an hour. But those cheap places have been so painfully slow and erratic, some not even allowing me access to my email, I upgraded to a 30 shilling a minute computer store outlet. Its still very slow, but I eventually get what I want, though I can still wait a minute or two after clicking for the website to turn up.
I don't need to spend all day on line, as I have more than ample reading material between the books I brought and four national English newspapers to peruse. I plopped down in front of CNN in my hotel's TV room with two of the papers for a couple hours this morning. The anti-gay bill a Uganda legislator proposed a couple months ago, requiring gays to register and establishing a death sentence for gays who seduce boys, continues to be an off-and-on story, one day front page news and then days with no coverage at all.
Both the country's Catholic Church and Anglican Church have come out in opposition to the bill, though without acknowledging that gays deserve full rights. President Obama has declared the bill "odious." Uganda's multi-term president acknowledges the world furor the bill has caused and urges no action until it has calmed down.
The bill hearkens back to the crazy days of Idi Amin, a man famous for reckless and provocative comments and actions. Shortly after he seized control of Uganda in 1972, when the president was out of the country, he evicted all Jews and Israelis, and a year later all Indians, even though the Indians owned the majority of the country's shops. Amin applauded the Palestinian massacre of the Israeli Olympians in Munich the summer of his coup. He proposed building a park honoring Hitler.
He banned beards and flip-flops. Police could make anyone caught wearing flip-flops eat them. The US withdrew its embassy less than a year after Amin took over. Nixon referred to Amin as a "prehistoric beast." He murdered 300,000 of his citizens during his seven years in power. It is hard to imagine how he could find enough people to assist his butchery in a country of people who seem so docile and cordial.
The last movie I saw before leaving for Uganda was French director Barbet Schroeder's much acclaimed 1974 documentary on Amin, a somewhat collaborative effort between the two of them. Audiences found it hilarious. It ran for over a year in Paris. Amin brought further attention to the movie when he demanded three cuts--one of an execution scene and another of a letter Amin sent to Tanzania's president saying that he loved him so much he would want to marry him if he weren't a man. He didn't object to any of his anti-Semitic or pro-Hitler comments.
When Schroeder initially refused to make the cuts, Amin took some 100 French citizens in Uganda hostage until he complied. Schroeder gave in, but indicated in the film when a cut had been made and had them available for audiences to see in the lobby after the screening.
The movie portrayed Amin as an affable, fatherly figure treating his countrymen as if they were children. It may be this seeming child-like nature that makes Ugandans easily controlled and accepting of their lot. Uganda is the only country in the East Africa coalition with Tanzania and Kenya that does not have a minimum wage, and it is in no hurry to establish one. A government minister was quoted in a recent newspaper article as saying it would take 40 years to enact such a law. A few years ago the government came up with a plan called Vision 2035 to transform Uganda "from a peasant to a modern and prosperous country" by 2035.
The vast majority of its 31 million citizens are just scraping by. I see very little of the industriousness that was so evident in China. People don't have much to occupy themselves with. Villages and cities teem with people just lingering about. One of the few non-laboring jobs is providing transport on the back of a motorcycle. Clusters of such guys are one of the common sites of Uganda. The country would like more tourist dollars, but only twelve flights a week arrive from Europe and none from the US or Asia, just another seven a week from Dubai.
One growth job that has a lot of takers is working as a security guard in Iraq. US companies actively recruit here in Uganda, as they can pay Ugandans considerably less than their American counterparts. There are 10,000 Ugandans in Iraq earning $600 a month, compared to the $15,000 Americans are paid. Up until recently the American contractors paid the Ugandans $1300 a month, but realized there was enough demand and qualified people, they could get away with paying them less than half that. That $600 is still a mini-fortune to the Ugandans, most of whom are lucky to earn a dollar a day--$300 a year.
My reading presented a less rosy picture of the country than what I've been seeing. Stories on rape are common, though instead of using the word rape, it is referred to as "defilement." One town was happy that there had only been 23 defilements in the past month, down ten per cent.
The papers use the word "Kandahar" in place of "vagina." A political candidate was recently detained for defaming his opponent in a public confrontation, saying she had "a huge and smelly Kandahar." The front page headline of one of yesterday's papers was about a man accused of murder running mad in prison haunted by visions of the women he murdered.
Life expectancy for Ugandans is just 52 years. About 300 people die a day from malaria, mostly children under five and pregnant women. Only 60% of children complete primary school. Corruption is rampant. Letters-to-the-editor decry the waste of tax-payers money. A couple days after a road contractor put some paint down, a surprise rain in the dry season washed it away. Most politicians live by the "rule of the full-belly," taking care of themselves first, then their relatives, then their tribal brethren before considering the public good.
I will be happy to be back on my bike tomorrow so I don't have to fill my day reading about such things.
Later, George
I tried to make my last three days on the bike recovery days, limiting my mileage to 50 miles a day, but the steep hilly terrain has made each day as demanding as an 80 or 90 mile day, further depleting my legs. I am counting on a full day of respite to restore their pep.
Mbara has the cheapest Internet I've encountered. There are Internet cafes all over advertising twenty shilling per minute rates, sixty cents an hour. But those cheap places have been so painfully slow and erratic, some not even allowing me access to my email, I upgraded to a 30 shilling a minute computer store outlet. Its still very slow, but I eventually get what I want, though I can still wait a minute or two after clicking for the website to turn up.
I don't need to spend all day on line, as I have more than ample reading material between the books I brought and four national English newspapers to peruse. I plopped down in front of CNN in my hotel's TV room with two of the papers for a couple hours this morning. The anti-gay bill a Uganda legislator proposed a couple months ago, requiring gays to register and establishing a death sentence for gays who seduce boys, continues to be an off-and-on story, one day front page news and then days with no coverage at all.
Both the country's Catholic Church and Anglican Church have come out in opposition to the bill, though without acknowledging that gays deserve full rights. President Obama has declared the bill "odious." Uganda's multi-term president acknowledges the world furor the bill has caused and urges no action until it has calmed down.
The bill hearkens back to the crazy days of Idi Amin, a man famous for reckless and provocative comments and actions. Shortly after he seized control of Uganda in 1972, when the president was out of the country, he evicted all Jews and Israelis, and a year later all Indians, even though the Indians owned the majority of the country's shops. Amin applauded the Palestinian massacre of the Israeli Olympians in Munich the summer of his coup. He proposed building a park honoring Hitler.
He banned beards and flip-flops. Police could make anyone caught wearing flip-flops eat them. The US withdrew its embassy less than a year after Amin took over. Nixon referred to Amin as a "prehistoric beast." He murdered 300,000 of his citizens during his seven years in power. It is hard to imagine how he could find enough people to assist his butchery in a country of people who seem so docile and cordial.
The last movie I saw before leaving for Uganda was French director Barbet Schroeder's much acclaimed 1974 documentary on Amin, a somewhat collaborative effort between the two of them. Audiences found it hilarious. It ran for over a year in Paris. Amin brought further attention to the movie when he demanded three cuts--one of an execution scene and another of a letter Amin sent to Tanzania's president saying that he loved him so much he would want to marry him if he weren't a man. He didn't object to any of his anti-Semitic or pro-Hitler comments.
When Schroeder initially refused to make the cuts, Amin took some 100 French citizens in Uganda hostage until he complied. Schroeder gave in, but indicated in the film when a cut had been made and had them available for audiences to see in the lobby after the screening.
The movie portrayed Amin as an affable, fatherly figure treating his countrymen as if they were children. It may be this seeming child-like nature that makes Ugandans easily controlled and accepting of their lot. Uganda is the only country in the East Africa coalition with Tanzania and Kenya that does not have a minimum wage, and it is in no hurry to establish one. A government minister was quoted in a recent newspaper article as saying it would take 40 years to enact such a law. A few years ago the government came up with a plan called Vision 2035 to transform Uganda "from a peasant to a modern and prosperous country" by 2035.
The vast majority of its 31 million citizens are just scraping by. I see very little of the industriousness that was so evident in China. People don't have much to occupy themselves with. Villages and cities teem with people just lingering about. One of the few non-laboring jobs is providing transport on the back of a motorcycle. Clusters of such guys are one of the common sites of Uganda. The country would like more tourist dollars, but only twelve flights a week arrive from Europe and none from the US or Asia, just another seven a week from Dubai.
One growth job that has a lot of takers is working as a security guard in Iraq. US companies actively recruit here in Uganda, as they can pay Ugandans considerably less than their American counterparts. There are 10,000 Ugandans in Iraq earning $600 a month, compared to the $15,000 Americans are paid. Up until recently the American contractors paid the Ugandans $1300 a month, but realized there was enough demand and qualified people, they could get away with paying them less than half that. That $600 is still a mini-fortune to the Ugandans, most of whom are lucky to earn a dollar a day--$300 a year.
My reading presented a less rosy picture of the country than what I've been seeing. Stories on rape are common, though instead of using the word rape, it is referred to as "defilement." One town was happy that there had only been 23 defilements in the past month, down ten per cent.
The papers use the word "Kandahar" in place of "vagina." A political candidate was recently detained for defaming his opponent in a public confrontation, saying she had "a huge and smelly Kandahar." The front page headline of one of yesterday's papers was about a man accused of murder running mad in prison haunted by visions of the women he murdered.
Life expectancy for Ugandans is just 52 years. About 300 people die a day from malaria, mostly children under five and pregnant women. Only 60% of children complete primary school. Corruption is rampant. Letters-to-the-editor decry the waste of tax-payers money. A couple days after a road contractor put some paint down, a surprise rain in the dry season washed it away. Most politicians live by the "rule of the full-belly," taking care of themselves first, then their relatives, then their tribal brethren before considering the public good.
I will be happy to be back on my bike tomorrow so I don't have to fill my day reading about such things.
Later, George
Monday, February 15, 2010
Mbara, Uganda
Friends: After several miles of riding my brakes on a rough stretch of wash-board dirt road in Queen Elizabeth National Park, I heard that dreaded screech of metal scraping metal on my front wheel, indicating a worn-out brake pad. Though it had been several trips since I had replaced the pads, I thought I had more wear left in them than 250 miles, but Uganda has demanded an excessive amount of braking.
The many villages I pass through all have a series of big-time speed bumps, some a lone mountain of a hump and others a tight set of five that are so jarring I must pass over them at a crawl. A town can have a dozen or more of them. Occasionally there is a dirt track around them for us bicyclists, but that too requires considerable slowing. There is rarely a sign warning of the bumps ahead, so I must remain quite vigilant, especially on high-speed descents. It could be curtains if I hit one of them at 30 miles per hour. With villages every five miles or so, the speed bumps are cutting my daily average speed by a mile or two, and also prematurely wearing out my brake pads.
But I do have spares, so when I heard that metal screech I immediately stopped to replace the pads. As I did so on the lightly traveled road, both of the drivers who passed stopped to ask if I needed help, then warned me that I shouldn't linger long as lions and elephants roamed in the park and could appear at any time. I wasn't overly concerned, as a pack of gazelles calmly grazed nearby, and I had also passed a few buffaloes and wart hogs quietly going about their business. The buffaloes allowed me to take their picture, but the wart hogs were a bit jumpy, scampering away before I could get off a shot.
There was a rare, highly-welcome, cloud-cover, so without the sun beating down on me, I wasn't in as much haste as I might otherwise have been to complete my repair. I was attentively trying to match up the number of spacers my previous pads had and also give them the proper forward tilt. The fresh pads were fat enough that I had to let out a little of my brake cable.
Job completed, it was a few miles to a series of hippo pools. The hippos were elsewhere, nor did I spot any when I crossed over the Kazinga Channel connecting Lakes George and Edward. It was possible to take a two-hour cruise down the channel with the guarantee of much wild-live spotting, but only if there were enough customers or if someone was willing to fork over the equivalent of a full boat load.
I had yet to see another Westerner in the park, or seen any hanging out in Karese, twenty miles away, where I had spent the previous night. In fact, I had not glimpsed a single tourist since arriving in Uganda and only a four-some of backpackers in Fort Portal, so I didn't care to risk biking 15 miles to the boat launch. Despite half-a-dozen significant National Parks, tourism seems to be at a minimum in Uganda, or else those tourists who spend thousands of dollars on full-fledged safaris have escaped my notice, perhaps being anonymously transported by the over-sized land-rovers with tinted-windows that occasionally drive by. Ordinarily, outfitters plaster their vehicles with decals promoting themselves, but perhaps they prefer to remain low-key here.
Evidence of free-spending tourists though was flagrantly thrown in my face after I exited Queen Elizabeth National Park and proceeded towards Bwindi Impenetrable National Park. For the first time children along the road clamored "Give me pen" and "Give me money," evidently corrupted by free-giving tourists. I hadn't had a single such request in 250 miles, passing through regions unvisited by tourists.
And those making the demands weren't being nice about it. When I stopped at a water pump in one small village I was immediately descended upon by kids wanting/expecting/demanding some thing. An old woman grabbed my arm and insisted I give her some money. But those weren't the worst of it. Along this stretch there was an occasional extra-surly, older, teen-aged boy who snarled, "Give me your money," as if they were an outlaw in training, not wanting a simple coin but all I had.
It hearkened me back to South Africa, and was most unsettling. Fortunately, there was enough pedestrian and bicycle and motor-cycle and car traffic, that I wasn't in such isolation as I had been in South Africa. But still, an occasional kid made a run at me, perhaps just to give me a fright, and succeeding. I didn't take them lightly, as they posed a legitimate threat to make a grab at my pocket or knock me off my bike, as happened to me in South Africa a year ago. I was near the Rwanda border. There were quite a few Rwandan refuges in the vicinity who had fled the country in fear of reprisals for being part of the genocide of a few years ago. Some were outlaws who could be desperate.
A day later though, when I was back in regions unfrequented by tourists, and away from the border, Uganda regained its tranquil, idyllic ambiance. I know it can be a dilemma for tourists, who have so much, to resist giving to the seriously impoverished, but it greatly alters the behavior of those they give to. It was quite a contrast bicycling through Laos shortly after it had been opened up to travelers after decades of isolation and how unwanting people were compared to bicycling through Nepal and Morocco and Lesotho with kids running after me or alongside me desperate for something having grown accustomed to tourists dispensing trinkets. Those kids in Laos were so cute it was hard not to please them with a treat of some sort, but then they would be turned into wanters, seeing a white person and expecting something from him.
One of my premier converts to the bicycle, Dwight of http://dwightworker.com, is presently repeating my Southeast Asia tour through Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia. He had a wonderfully charming experience in Laos of treating all the kids in a village to ice cream, buying up the entire stock of a guy pushing a cart. It was a nice gesture of generosity that all those kids and the vendor will long remember, but I wonder if now all those kids will be screaming, "Give me ice cream," the next time a Westerner passes through their village. Kids in Lesotho, who were accustomed to tourists giving them candy, beseiged me with screams of "Give me a sweet." The roads were so rough and steep they were able to run alongside me for ten or fifteen minutes keeping up the chant, growing increasingly insistent and belligerent.
I had heard from two different well-traveled touring cyclists over the years that Uganda was the favorite country they had biked through. Things haven't changed too much. Other than the stretch between national parks dotted with safari lodges, the locals have been most kind and gentle other than a few feral youths with a wild-eyed look of desperation wanting to grab whatever they could. One tried to snatch an energy bar I had on my lap as I sat on the porch of a small grocery store drinking a soda. A pack of three noticed I had an extra pen laying on a table as I ate lunch. They demanded it. I told them it had run out of ink, but they still wanted it. When I offered it, all three immediately pounced upon it, fighting amongst themselves as if it was a morsel of food and they hadn't eaten for days.
I'm presently headed back to the shores of Lake Victoria after a 200 mile detour to the western fringe of Uganda and its string of wild-life preserves. I will be crossing into Tanzania soon, largely through untouristed areas, so I anticipate continued goodwill.
I passed into the southern hemisphere just before Queen Elizabeth National Park. Two large upright concrete circles marked the line. I had breakfast at the Equator Lodge shortly before it. It hadn't opened yet, but there was a woman sweeping the floor. I asked her if it was possible to have some fried eggs. She said that it was. That is becoming a common occurrence.
The occasional village restaurants ordinarily serve not much more than matoke, a mush of bananas fried up. Its generally not ready until lunch time. Happily I have yet to encounter a restaurant not willing to cook up some eggs for me, even if it requires having to go to a nearby store to buy them. Village restaurants are frequently unmarked, only known to the locals. When I asked a shop owner this afternoon where I might be able to get a meal in his village, he said there wasn't one good enough for me. I said all I wanted was some beans and rice. He took me two doors down and there a lady served me a banana stew with slices of baked pumpkin on the side that were quite tasty. When I polished off the pumpkin before the bananas she brought out more.
I'll be staying at my second hotel of the trip tonight. Neither has cost more than four dollars. The camping is just too iffy, and it is a virtual necessity to shower after not being able to douse myself at all during the day.
Later, George
The many villages I pass through all have a series of big-time speed bumps, some a lone mountain of a hump and others a tight set of five that are so jarring I must pass over them at a crawl. A town can have a dozen or more of them. Occasionally there is a dirt track around them for us bicyclists, but that too requires considerable slowing. There is rarely a sign warning of the bumps ahead, so I must remain quite vigilant, especially on high-speed descents. It could be curtains if I hit one of them at 30 miles per hour. With villages every five miles or so, the speed bumps are cutting my daily average speed by a mile or two, and also prematurely wearing out my brake pads.
But I do have spares, so when I heard that metal screech I immediately stopped to replace the pads. As I did so on the lightly traveled road, both of the drivers who passed stopped to ask if I needed help, then warned me that I shouldn't linger long as lions and elephants roamed in the park and could appear at any time. I wasn't overly concerned, as a pack of gazelles calmly grazed nearby, and I had also passed a few buffaloes and wart hogs quietly going about their business. The buffaloes allowed me to take their picture, but the wart hogs were a bit jumpy, scampering away before I could get off a shot.
There was a rare, highly-welcome, cloud-cover, so without the sun beating down on me, I wasn't in as much haste as I might otherwise have been to complete my repair. I was attentively trying to match up the number of spacers my previous pads had and also give them the proper forward tilt. The fresh pads were fat enough that I had to let out a little of my brake cable.
Job completed, it was a few miles to a series of hippo pools. The hippos were elsewhere, nor did I spot any when I crossed over the Kazinga Channel connecting Lakes George and Edward. It was possible to take a two-hour cruise down the channel with the guarantee of much wild-live spotting, but only if there were enough customers or if someone was willing to fork over the equivalent of a full boat load.
I had yet to see another Westerner in the park, or seen any hanging out in Karese, twenty miles away, where I had spent the previous night. In fact, I had not glimpsed a single tourist since arriving in Uganda and only a four-some of backpackers in Fort Portal, so I didn't care to risk biking 15 miles to the boat launch. Despite half-a-dozen significant National Parks, tourism seems to be at a minimum in Uganda, or else those tourists who spend thousands of dollars on full-fledged safaris have escaped my notice, perhaps being anonymously transported by the over-sized land-rovers with tinted-windows that occasionally drive by. Ordinarily, outfitters plaster their vehicles with decals promoting themselves, but perhaps they prefer to remain low-key here.
Evidence of free-spending tourists though was flagrantly thrown in my face after I exited Queen Elizabeth National Park and proceeded towards Bwindi Impenetrable National Park. For the first time children along the road clamored "Give me pen" and "Give me money," evidently corrupted by free-giving tourists. I hadn't had a single such request in 250 miles, passing through regions unvisited by tourists.
And those making the demands weren't being nice about it. When I stopped at a water pump in one small village I was immediately descended upon by kids wanting/expecting/demanding some thing. An old woman grabbed my arm and insisted I give her some money. But those weren't the worst of it. Along this stretch there was an occasional extra-surly, older, teen-aged boy who snarled, "Give me your money," as if they were an outlaw in training, not wanting a simple coin but all I had.
It hearkened me back to South Africa, and was most unsettling. Fortunately, there was enough pedestrian and bicycle and motor-cycle and car traffic, that I wasn't in such isolation as I had been in South Africa. But still, an occasional kid made a run at me, perhaps just to give me a fright, and succeeding. I didn't take them lightly, as they posed a legitimate threat to make a grab at my pocket or knock me off my bike, as happened to me in South Africa a year ago. I was near the Rwanda border. There were quite a few Rwandan refuges in the vicinity who had fled the country in fear of reprisals for being part of the genocide of a few years ago. Some were outlaws who could be desperate.
A day later though, when I was back in regions unfrequented by tourists, and away from the border, Uganda regained its tranquil, idyllic ambiance. I know it can be a dilemma for tourists, who have so much, to resist giving to the seriously impoverished, but it greatly alters the behavior of those they give to. It was quite a contrast bicycling through Laos shortly after it had been opened up to travelers after decades of isolation and how unwanting people were compared to bicycling through Nepal and Morocco and Lesotho with kids running after me or alongside me desperate for something having grown accustomed to tourists dispensing trinkets. Those kids in Laos were so cute it was hard not to please them with a treat of some sort, but then they would be turned into wanters, seeing a white person and expecting something from him.
One of my premier converts to the bicycle, Dwight of http://dwightworker.com, is presently repeating my Southeast Asia tour through Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia. He had a wonderfully charming experience in Laos of treating all the kids in a village to ice cream, buying up the entire stock of a guy pushing a cart. It was a nice gesture of generosity that all those kids and the vendor will long remember, but I wonder if now all those kids will be screaming, "Give me ice cream," the next time a Westerner passes through their village. Kids in Lesotho, who were accustomed to tourists giving them candy, beseiged me with screams of "Give me a sweet." The roads were so rough and steep they were able to run alongside me for ten or fifteen minutes keeping up the chant, growing increasingly insistent and belligerent.
I had heard from two different well-traveled touring cyclists over the years that Uganda was the favorite country they had biked through. Things haven't changed too much. Other than the stretch between national parks dotted with safari lodges, the locals have been most kind and gentle other than a few feral youths with a wild-eyed look of desperation wanting to grab whatever they could. One tried to snatch an energy bar I had on my lap as I sat on the porch of a small grocery store drinking a soda. A pack of three noticed I had an extra pen laying on a table as I ate lunch. They demanded it. I told them it had run out of ink, but they still wanted it. When I offered it, all three immediately pounced upon it, fighting amongst themselves as if it was a morsel of food and they hadn't eaten for days.
I'm presently headed back to the shores of Lake Victoria after a 200 mile detour to the western fringe of Uganda and its string of wild-life preserves. I will be crossing into Tanzania soon, largely through untouristed areas, so I anticipate continued goodwill.
I passed into the southern hemisphere just before Queen Elizabeth National Park. Two large upright concrete circles marked the line. I had breakfast at the Equator Lodge shortly before it. It hadn't opened yet, but there was a woman sweeping the floor. I asked her if it was possible to have some fried eggs. She said that it was. That is becoming a common occurrence.
The occasional village restaurants ordinarily serve not much more than matoke, a mush of bananas fried up. Its generally not ready until lunch time. Happily I have yet to encounter a restaurant not willing to cook up some eggs for me, even if it requires having to go to a nearby store to buy them. Village restaurants are frequently unmarked, only known to the locals. When I asked a shop owner this afternoon where I might be able to get a meal in his village, he said there wasn't one good enough for me. I said all I wanted was some beans and rice. He took me two doors down and there a lady served me a banana stew with slices of baked pumpkin on the side that were quite tasty. When I polished off the pumpkin before the bananas she brought out more.
I'll be staying at my second hotel of the trip tonight. Neither has cost more than four dollars. The camping is just too iffy, and it is a virtual necessity to shower after not being able to douse myself at all during the day.
Later, George
Friday, February 12, 2010
Fort Portal, Uganda
Friends: There are several daily English newspapers in this former British colony. One front page headline proclaimed "Heat Wave Continues." Flying in from Chicago's sub-freezing temperatures, just about any short-sleeve weather would seem hot and take some adapting. I'm happy to learn that I have possible cooler temperatures to look forward to.
Though Uganda straddles the equator, this land-locked country is entirely at an elevation of over 3000 feet, somewhat moderating the heat, but not lately with consistent temperatures in the 90s. It is a matter of concern and a topic of conversation among the locals. I've ridden in worse. But this has been more of a challenge, as its not so easy to come by water.
I've had only one river and not a single lake to take a dip in the past 200 miles. Though I'm making a circumference of Lake Victoria, the road along this strech is some distance from it. Tap water is a scarcity. Most people in rural areas get their water from the town pump. There is usually a line of people, each with several containers as large as five gallons to fill. It is rare to find running water at a gas station or village stores or restaurants. Such places will generally have a yellow five gallon jug that I can extract some water from to put through my filtration pump, but not enough to spare for me to pour over my head or soak my shirt, as I otherwise would in such temperatures. It has made keeping my body temperature down a challenge.
But people are generous when I ask for water. At dusk one evening when I was in need of water, I encountered a couple of young teen-aged boys with a trio of five gallon jugs and one of three gallons, almost 150 pounds of water, lashed to a bicycle they were pushing up an embankment to the road. I asked where they'd gotten their water. They pointed off in the distance. They realized there was too much of a crowd for me to wait with the sun fast setting, so they generously offered some of theirs.
The paucity of water also makes it difficult to wash clothes. When I have stopped along the road in a patch of shade, I can frequently smell the approach of another before I hear them. It also makes me overtake slower bicyclists with a little more vigor. There's no chance that my nostrils would allow me to draft.
As I adapt to the heat and regain my touring conditioning, I have been trying to limit my time on the bike to one hour intervals. Pushing on at times has seemed like penance. There have been occasional afternoon patches of cloud. It is a cause for celebration whenever one blocks the sun. It makes a considerable difference. At times I've kept pace with the shadow of a cloud as it drifts along, as if I were drafting it.
The hilly terrain has been as draining and punishing as the heat with one long seven per cent climb after another. But I know I will soon be in tip-top shape and can lose myself to the joy of being on my bike in a distant land experiencing all the novelties it has to offer without having to worry where I'm going to find the energy to keep myself in motion.
I am still figuring out how much I need to eat and drink to sustain myself. I am drinking as much as I can, yet can go from dawn to dusk without making water. The heaping plates of local vegetables are initially filling, but leave me hungry all too soon. The meat I have seen, not more than a stringy glop of beef, has been less than appealing. I may have to start trying to eat more of it than I have been. At one small restaurant when I asked the waitress if she had a menu, she said, "No, just my mouth." After reciting the menu, when I declined the beef, she said, "Okay, no meat, just food."
Though English is universal, I often have to strain to understand what someone is saying, as people tend to mumble and are extremely soft-spoken, barely speaking above a whisper. They are so kindly I had no concern my first day out of Kampala of finding a place to camp despite seeing how densely populated the countryside was, knowing that if I had to ask to pitch my tent on someone's property, they would surely say yes. There were just rare patches of small forests and orchards for wild camping. When dark approached I was closing in on a fairly sizable town, and it looked as if I would have to put my theory to a test.
On the equator there is not much of a twilight. When the sun begins to set, it gets pitch dark fast. When I saw an older guy sitting outside a shack of a general store beside a house, I asked him if I could camp there. He nicely told me that he didn't think it was safe, and suggested I try a church a kilometer up the road.
I had no problem finding the church in the middle of the town just at dark. The reverend was off at a meeting, but his 20-year old son said it would be fine to pitch my tent just behind the church facing their house. They had no running water. The toilet was an outhouse. After I used it, the young man awaited me with half a glass of water to pour over my hands. In the morning he offered me a bowl of water so I could give myself a more thorough wash.
Churches and schools are in great abundance here, some linked together. The country is 80% Christian, with half the Christians Catholic. Uganda was the first country in Africa to receive a visit from the Pope. The population is 10% Muslim. I was awoken my first night in he country at 4 a.m. by the Muslim call to prayer. Idi Amin was a Muslim. When he fled the country in 1979 after seven years in power, it was Muslim countries that offered him refuge, first Muammar al-Gaddafi in Libya for a short spell, than Saudi Arabia, where he spent the final 25 years of his life, dying in 2004. His dream was to be buried in Uganda, but Uganda didn't want him. His vice president is an ailing 88-year old, still in the country, upset that he is ignored and neglected.
By my third night in Uganda I was far enough out of Kampala the terrain was less settled. Rather than agriculture, there was open range with grazing cattle. The camping wasn't matter-of-fact, but about 45 minutes before dark I came upon some unfenced countryside with patches of trees and bushes. I was weary enough to stop a little early, willing to take the risk of someone passing by on the way home.
Not long after I set up my tent I heard the mooing of a cow. I feared the approach of a small herd accompanied by a shepherd. My first reaction was to be prepared to greet the shepherd with "Ni-how," still conditioned to being in China. But this small herd of a dozen or so was on its own. The cattle had huge, swooping horns. I was nervous as they passed my tent that one might turn his head out of curiosity and give it a slash. None did, though a couple shot off a jet of urine.
It would be nice to sleep in as I gain my conditioning, but the first couple hours of the day are pleasantly cool and make for the best riding of the day. I need to be up and at it with the first hint of light. I try to eat as much as I can as I break camp, so I'll have the energy to bike for a couple of hours before having to stop to eat, taking full advantage of the early morning cool.
When I arrived in Fort Portal yesterday afternoon, all Internet in the town was down. Deferring my Internet time to the next morning was just as well, making it a rest day of a sort. I had a good night's sleep and shower at a campground/hostel outside of town run by an older Englishwoman. I was her only customer for the night. The night before the only ones there were a couple from Ireland.
I am now on the fringe of a series of national parks with abundant wild life. Diane Fossey's mountain gorillas can be visited at Bwindi Impenetable National Park. It costs $500 to search them out and then spend an hour with them in the wild. They have become human-habituated. It is said to be an ultimate experience hanging out with them. Much as I would like to, I don't think I will be reporting on that. Five hundred dollars is more than I will spend on this trip, other than for visas and air fare.
Later, George
Though Uganda straddles the equator, this land-locked country is entirely at an elevation of over 3000 feet, somewhat moderating the heat, but not lately with consistent temperatures in the 90s. It is a matter of concern and a topic of conversation among the locals. I've ridden in worse. But this has been more of a challenge, as its not so easy to come by water.
I've had only one river and not a single lake to take a dip in the past 200 miles. Though I'm making a circumference of Lake Victoria, the road along this strech is some distance from it. Tap water is a scarcity. Most people in rural areas get their water from the town pump. There is usually a line of people, each with several containers as large as five gallons to fill. It is rare to find running water at a gas station or village stores or restaurants. Such places will generally have a yellow five gallon jug that I can extract some water from to put through my filtration pump, but not enough to spare for me to pour over my head or soak my shirt, as I otherwise would in such temperatures. It has made keeping my body temperature down a challenge.
But people are generous when I ask for water. At dusk one evening when I was in need of water, I encountered a couple of young teen-aged boys with a trio of five gallon jugs and one of three gallons, almost 150 pounds of water, lashed to a bicycle they were pushing up an embankment to the road. I asked where they'd gotten their water. They pointed off in the distance. They realized there was too much of a crowd for me to wait with the sun fast setting, so they generously offered some of theirs.
The paucity of water also makes it difficult to wash clothes. When I have stopped along the road in a patch of shade, I can frequently smell the approach of another before I hear them. It also makes me overtake slower bicyclists with a little more vigor. There's no chance that my nostrils would allow me to draft.
As I adapt to the heat and regain my touring conditioning, I have been trying to limit my time on the bike to one hour intervals. Pushing on at times has seemed like penance. There have been occasional afternoon patches of cloud. It is a cause for celebration whenever one blocks the sun. It makes a considerable difference. At times I've kept pace with the shadow of a cloud as it drifts along, as if I were drafting it.
The hilly terrain has been as draining and punishing as the heat with one long seven per cent climb after another. But I know I will soon be in tip-top shape and can lose myself to the joy of being on my bike in a distant land experiencing all the novelties it has to offer without having to worry where I'm going to find the energy to keep myself in motion.
I am still figuring out how much I need to eat and drink to sustain myself. I am drinking as much as I can, yet can go from dawn to dusk without making water. The heaping plates of local vegetables are initially filling, but leave me hungry all too soon. The meat I have seen, not more than a stringy glop of beef, has been less than appealing. I may have to start trying to eat more of it than I have been. At one small restaurant when I asked the waitress if she had a menu, she said, "No, just my mouth." After reciting the menu, when I declined the beef, she said, "Okay, no meat, just food."
Though English is universal, I often have to strain to understand what someone is saying, as people tend to mumble and are extremely soft-spoken, barely speaking above a whisper. They are so kindly I had no concern my first day out of Kampala of finding a place to camp despite seeing how densely populated the countryside was, knowing that if I had to ask to pitch my tent on someone's property, they would surely say yes. There were just rare patches of small forests and orchards for wild camping. When dark approached I was closing in on a fairly sizable town, and it looked as if I would have to put my theory to a test.
On the equator there is not much of a twilight. When the sun begins to set, it gets pitch dark fast. When I saw an older guy sitting outside a shack of a general store beside a house, I asked him if I could camp there. He nicely told me that he didn't think it was safe, and suggested I try a church a kilometer up the road.
I had no problem finding the church in the middle of the town just at dark. The reverend was off at a meeting, but his 20-year old son said it would be fine to pitch my tent just behind the church facing their house. They had no running water. The toilet was an outhouse. After I used it, the young man awaited me with half a glass of water to pour over my hands. In the morning he offered me a bowl of water so I could give myself a more thorough wash.
Churches and schools are in great abundance here, some linked together. The country is 80% Christian, with half the Christians Catholic. Uganda was the first country in Africa to receive a visit from the Pope. The population is 10% Muslim. I was awoken my first night in he country at 4 a.m. by the Muslim call to prayer. Idi Amin was a Muslim. When he fled the country in 1979 after seven years in power, it was Muslim countries that offered him refuge, first Muammar al-Gaddafi in Libya for a short spell, than Saudi Arabia, where he spent the final 25 years of his life, dying in 2004. His dream was to be buried in Uganda, but Uganda didn't want him. His vice president is an ailing 88-year old, still in the country, upset that he is ignored and neglected.
By my third night in Uganda I was far enough out of Kampala the terrain was less settled. Rather than agriculture, there was open range with grazing cattle. The camping wasn't matter-of-fact, but about 45 minutes before dark I came upon some unfenced countryside with patches of trees and bushes. I was weary enough to stop a little early, willing to take the risk of someone passing by on the way home.
Not long after I set up my tent I heard the mooing of a cow. I feared the approach of a small herd accompanied by a shepherd. My first reaction was to be prepared to greet the shepherd with "Ni-how," still conditioned to being in China. But this small herd of a dozen or so was on its own. The cattle had huge, swooping horns. I was nervous as they passed my tent that one might turn his head out of curiosity and give it a slash. None did, though a couple shot off a jet of urine.
It would be nice to sleep in as I gain my conditioning, but the first couple hours of the day are pleasantly cool and make for the best riding of the day. I need to be up and at it with the first hint of light. I try to eat as much as I can as I break camp, so I'll have the energy to bike for a couple of hours before having to stop to eat, taking full advantage of the early morning cool.
When I arrived in Fort Portal yesterday afternoon, all Internet in the town was down. Deferring my Internet time to the next morning was just as well, making it a rest day of a sort. I had a good night's sleep and shower at a campground/hostel outside of town run by an older Englishwoman. I was her only customer for the night. The night before the only ones there were a couple from Ireland.
I am now on the fringe of a series of national parks with abundant wild life. Diane Fossey's mountain gorillas can be visited at Bwindi Impenetable National Park. It costs $500 to search them out and then spend an hour with them in the wild. They have become human-habituated. It is said to be an ultimate experience hanging out with them. Much as I would like to, I don't think I will be reporting on that. Five hundred dollars is more than I will spend on this trip, other than for visas and air fare.
Later, George
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Kampala, Uganda
Friends: I've changed money, picked up a map, gotten a solid meal into me after biking the 25 miles from Entebbe on the shores of Lake Victoria, where I flew into last night, to Kampala, Uganda's capital. Now I have to figure out how to find the road out of this capital city of 1.3 million to Fort Portal, 200 miles away, nestled up against the mountain range that separates Uganda from Rwanda and the Congo.
The very sweet and kindly lady at the tourist office couldn't tell me. "It's too far," she said. "You ought to take a bus." There are few street or road signs to help me, so I'll be using my compass and instincts to guide me once again, as in my most recent trip across China. The tourist lady's last words to me were, "I hope you don't get lost."
I made out all right last night leaving the airport at 11 p.m. in the pitch dark with no moon and few street lights to illuminate the way. I knew of a campground about five miles from the airport, but before I got that far I saw a clump of trees along a barbed-wire enclosed UN supply depot that offered a good enough camp spot. I had no need of water, as I had pumped enough water at the airport for my three water bottles, much easier pumping than in China, indicating the water didn't have too many particulates in it.
I had no problem immediately conking out after over 24 hours in transit. I hadn't slept enough when I was awoken by daylight at 6:45, but since I wasn't too well secluded, arose and headed on in to Entebbe, the country's fourth largest city with 57,000 people. I was in search of a Montessori school founded by a couple from Winnetka in 2001. They are friends of a friend. My friend didn't warn them that I was coming, wishing me to surprise them. Unfortunately, I missed them, as they had flown back to Chicago the day before. But I had a nice chat with the local woman who runs the school. She spent a year in Chicago getting trained in the Montessori method. I asked if she knew of a store where I could buy a good map of the country. She told me the post office in Kampala sold them. That was nice to know, as I knew I shouldn't have a problem finding the post office, especially with everyone speaking English.
I shared the ample shoulder on the two-lane road linking these two cities with pedestrians, cyclists and mini-vans continually pulling over to pick up passengers. People along the road greeted me with "How are you," rather than "Hello," just as Lonely Planet predicted. And the same goes when I stop to ask people directions or the whereabouts of things.
Never have I felt so white, not only in contrast to everyone around me, but knowing I must get some color into my skin to survive being out in the equatorial sun all day. My toughest conditioning in the days to come will be adapting my skin to the sun's rays. My sun block seems to be working so far, as no pink to speak of yet. A missionary, the lone white I've encountered since leaving the airport, confirmed my skin showed no signs of being fried. He had done a little bicycle touring in the States and was interested in my plans. He was new to Africa, so could offer no advice.
My KLM flight was full of missionaries and aid workers, many who wore matching t-shirts, one with a Biblical quotation on the back. There were only a handful of Ugandans on the flight. Four of them were sitting behind me, speaking a language other than English, having a rollicking good time, without being loud or obnoxious. When the stewardess came by with the drink tray one exuberantly asked, "What have you got?" They conveyed the easy, casual warmth of the people that has been so immediately evident.
It was my first time on KLM and through Amsterdam's airport. I enjoyed both very much. As I made the long trek from one gate to another, I passed a dozen or more pictures of Eddie Merckx featured in an ad for Star Alliance proclaiming he used to travel the world in pursuit of titles, but he now he pursues miles on the 26 airlines under the Star Alliance umbrella.
Tulip bulbs for sale was another pleasant distraction from the hubbub. Unlike London's Heathrow, which doesn't post gate departures until 45 minutes before departure, mine was already up, two-and-a half-hours early, including how many minutes it would take to walk to the gate. It all made me very happy that I had made the switch from British Air, as it just started charging for bicycles, while KLM doesn't.
I have come to Africa to make a circuit of Lake Victoria, the world's second largest lake after Lake Superior. Its circumference is slightly more than 1000 miles, a bit more than Lake Michigan, another that I have ridden around. As Lake Michigan is surrounded by three states (Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan), Lake Victoria is surrounded by three countries (Uganda, Tanzania and Kenya). I could make the trip in two weeks or so. That would be a very short trip for such a long flight, so I will make as many side trips as I can, not entirely hugging the shore line in the six weeks before I return.
At present I know of no bicycle pilgrimage sites to check out in this region other than the birthplace of Freddy Mercury, singer/song-writer of Queen, who gave us the the bicyclist anthem, "Bicycle Race," with the immortal lyric, "I want to ride my bicycle." The album it came from, "Jazz," had one other bicycle-themed song--"Fat Bottomed Girls Make the Rock and Roll World Go Round." The album also included the greatest three-page album fold-out poster ever, featuring scads of topless women straddling bicycles.
Mercury was born on the island of Zanzibar, off the coast of Tanzania. I'm not sure if I'll have the time to include that in these travels, as it is more than 350 miles from Lake Victoria. But if I respond to the lure of Mount Kilimanjaro, 200 miles from the Lake, towards the coast, I could well continue on to Zanzibar. If I only had no return date, I could meander to my heart's delight.
Later, George
The very sweet and kindly lady at the tourist office couldn't tell me. "It's too far," she said. "You ought to take a bus." There are few street or road signs to help me, so I'll be using my compass and instincts to guide me once again, as in my most recent trip across China. The tourist lady's last words to me were, "I hope you don't get lost."
I made out all right last night leaving the airport at 11 p.m. in the pitch dark with no moon and few street lights to illuminate the way. I knew of a campground about five miles from the airport, but before I got that far I saw a clump of trees along a barbed-wire enclosed UN supply depot that offered a good enough camp spot. I had no need of water, as I had pumped enough water at the airport for my three water bottles, much easier pumping than in China, indicating the water didn't have too many particulates in it.
I had no problem immediately conking out after over 24 hours in transit. I hadn't slept enough when I was awoken by daylight at 6:45, but since I wasn't too well secluded, arose and headed on in to Entebbe, the country's fourth largest city with 57,000 people. I was in search of a Montessori school founded by a couple from Winnetka in 2001. They are friends of a friend. My friend didn't warn them that I was coming, wishing me to surprise them. Unfortunately, I missed them, as they had flown back to Chicago the day before. But I had a nice chat with the local woman who runs the school. She spent a year in Chicago getting trained in the Montessori method. I asked if she knew of a store where I could buy a good map of the country. She told me the post office in Kampala sold them. That was nice to know, as I knew I shouldn't have a problem finding the post office, especially with everyone speaking English.
I shared the ample shoulder on the two-lane road linking these two cities with pedestrians, cyclists and mini-vans continually pulling over to pick up passengers. People along the road greeted me with "How are you," rather than "Hello," just as Lonely Planet predicted. And the same goes when I stop to ask people directions or the whereabouts of things.
Never have I felt so white, not only in contrast to everyone around me, but knowing I must get some color into my skin to survive being out in the equatorial sun all day. My toughest conditioning in the days to come will be adapting my skin to the sun's rays. My sun block seems to be working so far, as no pink to speak of yet. A missionary, the lone white I've encountered since leaving the airport, confirmed my skin showed no signs of being fried. He had done a little bicycle touring in the States and was interested in my plans. He was new to Africa, so could offer no advice.
My KLM flight was full of missionaries and aid workers, many who wore matching t-shirts, one with a Biblical quotation on the back. There were only a handful of Ugandans on the flight. Four of them were sitting behind me, speaking a language other than English, having a rollicking good time, without being loud or obnoxious. When the stewardess came by with the drink tray one exuberantly asked, "What have you got?" They conveyed the easy, casual warmth of the people that has been so immediately evident.
It was my first time on KLM and through Amsterdam's airport. I enjoyed both very much. As I made the long trek from one gate to another, I passed a dozen or more pictures of Eddie Merckx featured in an ad for Star Alliance proclaiming he used to travel the world in pursuit of titles, but he now he pursues miles on the 26 airlines under the Star Alliance umbrella.
Tulip bulbs for sale was another pleasant distraction from the hubbub. Unlike London's Heathrow, which doesn't post gate departures until 45 minutes before departure, mine was already up, two-and-a half-hours early, including how many minutes it would take to walk to the gate. It all made me very happy that I had made the switch from British Air, as it just started charging for bicycles, while KLM doesn't.
I have come to Africa to make a circuit of Lake Victoria, the world's second largest lake after Lake Superior. Its circumference is slightly more than 1000 miles, a bit more than Lake Michigan, another that I have ridden around. As Lake Michigan is surrounded by three states (Illinois, Wisconsin and Michigan), Lake Victoria is surrounded by three countries (Uganda, Tanzania and Kenya). I could make the trip in two weeks or so. That would be a very short trip for such a long flight, so I will make as many side trips as I can, not entirely hugging the shore line in the six weeks before I return.
At present I know of no bicycle pilgrimage sites to check out in this region other than the birthplace of Freddy Mercury, singer/song-writer of Queen, who gave us the the bicyclist anthem, "Bicycle Race," with the immortal lyric, "I want to ride my bicycle." The album it came from, "Jazz," had one other bicycle-themed song--"Fat Bottomed Girls Make the Rock and Roll World Go Round." The album also included the greatest three-page album fold-out poster ever, featuring scads of topless women straddling bicycles.
Mercury was born on the island of Zanzibar, off the coast of Tanzania. I'm not sure if I'll have the time to include that in these travels, as it is more than 350 miles from Lake Victoria. But if I respond to the lure of Mount Kilimanjaro, 200 miles from the Lake, towards the coast, I could well continue on to Zanzibar. If I only had no return date, I could meander to my heart's delight.
Later, George
Monday, February 8, 2010
Post-China Reading, including a bicycle book
Whenever I return from a prolonged bicycle tour in a foreign land, I eagerly seek out books about the region--travelogues, histories, cultural studies, biographies--wishing to relive my recent experience, while seeking to gain a greater understanding of the place and its people. The reading also allows me to affirm my various impressions. China was no different, though I feared it might be difficult to find up-to-date studies, with it growing and evolving so fast, by a decade a year, some analysts say.
There were shelves and shelves of books on China at Chicago's Harold Washington Library, some quite recent with superlative commentary and insights. I devoured nine of them within a month of my return and had another half dozen laying around when I called a halt to this submergence, realizing it had become an obsession and that I needed to pursue other interests.
Among my reading were two biographies on Mao, including the highly entertaining and incisive "The Private Life of Chairman Mao" by Li Zhisui, Mao's personal physician the last 22 years of his life, making many revelations, particularly about his philandering. Equally readable was "China Road," a farewell journey by Robert Gifford after serving six years in China as a correspondent for NPR. He traveled 3,000 miles across the country retracing some of the roads I bicycled and making many similar observations. He knew the country quite well, and had much to share.
"Oracle Bones" by Peter Hessler, the "New Yorker's" representative in China, was another superlative study. Hessler traced the stories of a handful of Chinese he had come to know as close friends, including several who had been English students of his who he had written about in an earlier book. That book was on my to-read list when I decided to abort my Chinese reading. "When China Rules the World" by Martin Jacques was also very worthwhile. This freshly published book was a thorough and not alarming study of China's increasing influence and affluence.
I sought out "Fried Eggs with Chopsticks" by Polly Evans, as it had been recommended by Lonely Planet. Although the author, a young English-woman, had worked in Hong Kong for a spell as a journalist, this was a fairly superficial backpacker's travelogue full of complaints about the difficulties of traveling in China, while trying to make light of the experience as much as possible. The book's subtitle, "One woman's hilarious adventures into a country and culture not her own," was a strong warning that this book was meant more to be entertaining than informative. One thing I have learned over the years is to be wary of something described as "hilarious," particularly movies. "Hilarious" is a very subjective term, and generally means something is straining to be funny.
For me, the best part of picking up this book was discovering that this was Evan's second book and that her first one had been about a 1,000 mile bike tour of Spain. I'll read any book about bicycling. Obviously that first book was received well enough for her to find a publisher for a second book. I never would have guessed though that she was a cyclist from the reading of her book on China. She does rent a bike for a little exploration, but otherwise makes no reference to her cycling past, partially because she isn't much of a cyclist.
She choose to travel by bike in Spain mostly as a stunt, rather than as something she had a fondness for. She had hardly biked at all when she undertook her trip, so it is another of those books describing the early travails of biking up mountains and biking with a load and all that, while trying to amuse. But at least as a journalist, she does some research about bicycling. She gets credit for the title of her book, "It's Not About the Tapas," a play on the title of Lance's first autobiography. She pays occasional homage to the Spanish five-time winner of the Tour de France Miguel Indurain and mentions the Tour de France from time to time. She even brings up Willy Voet, the soigneur for the 1998 Festina Tour de France team that was kicked out of the race after he was caught with a car load of doping products on his way to the Tour start and then who wrote a book about it.
She all too often takes a bus or accepts rides when the going gets tough. I had hoped by the end of her tour she would be a fully committed convert to the bike who wouldn't want to stop riding. But no, she forces herself to get up to her goal of 1,000 miles and then finishes off her trip by bus. When her final bus was late in arriving, she had the chance to get back on her bike and enjoy a final 30 or 40 miles of cycling bliss. Unfortunately, she waits for the bus.
There were shelves and shelves of books on China at Chicago's Harold Washington Library, some quite recent with superlative commentary and insights. I devoured nine of them within a month of my return and had another half dozen laying around when I called a halt to this submergence, realizing it had become an obsession and that I needed to pursue other interests.
Among my reading were two biographies on Mao, including the highly entertaining and incisive "The Private Life of Chairman Mao" by Li Zhisui, Mao's personal physician the last 22 years of his life, making many revelations, particularly about his philandering. Equally readable was "China Road," a farewell journey by Robert Gifford after serving six years in China as a correspondent for NPR. He traveled 3,000 miles across the country retracing some of the roads I bicycled and making many similar observations. He knew the country quite well, and had much to share.
"Oracle Bones" by Peter Hessler, the "New Yorker's" representative in China, was another superlative study. Hessler traced the stories of a handful of Chinese he had come to know as close friends, including several who had been English students of his who he had written about in an earlier book. That book was on my to-read list when I decided to abort my Chinese reading. "When China Rules the World" by Martin Jacques was also very worthwhile. This freshly published book was a thorough and not alarming study of China's increasing influence and affluence.
I sought out "Fried Eggs with Chopsticks" by Polly Evans, as it had been recommended by Lonely Planet. Although the author, a young English-woman, had worked in Hong Kong for a spell as a journalist, this was a fairly superficial backpacker's travelogue full of complaints about the difficulties of traveling in China, while trying to make light of the experience as much as possible. The book's subtitle, "One woman's hilarious adventures into a country and culture not her own," was a strong warning that this book was meant more to be entertaining than informative. One thing I have learned over the years is to be wary of something described as "hilarious," particularly movies. "Hilarious" is a very subjective term, and generally means something is straining to be funny.
For me, the best part of picking up this book was discovering that this was Evan's second book and that her first one had been about a 1,000 mile bike tour of Spain. I'll read any book about bicycling. Obviously that first book was received well enough for her to find a publisher for a second book. I never would have guessed though that she was a cyclist from the reading of her book on China. She does rent a bike for a little exploration, but otherwise makes no reference to her cycling past, partially because she isn't much of a cyclist.
She choose to travel by bike in Spain mostly as a stunt, rather than as something she had a fondness for. She had hardly biked at all when she undertook her trip, so it is another of those books describing the early travails of biking up mountains and biking with a load and all that, while trying to amuse. But at least as a journalist, she does some research about bicycling. She gets credit for the title of her book, "It's Not About the Tapas," a play on the title of Lance's first autobiography. She pays occasional homage to the Spanish five-time winner of the Tour de France Miguel Indurain and mentions the Tour de France from time to time. She even brings up Willy Voet, the soigneur for the 1998 Festina Tour de France team that was kicked out of the race after he was caught with a car load of doping products on his way to the Tour start and then who wrote a book about it.
She all too often takes a bus or accepts rides when the going gets tough. I had hoped by the end of her tour she would be a fully committed convert to the bike who wouldn't want to stop riding. But no, she forces herself to get up to her goal of 1,000 miles and then finishes off her trip by bus. When her final bus was late in arriving, she had the chance to get back on her bike and enjoy a final 30 or 40 miles of cycling bliss. Unfortunately, she waits for the bus.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Of Course He Remembered
Quite a few friends asked me after I biked out to Christian Vande Velde's house this past October in suburban Chicago with the gift of a few Tour de France course markers, if he would remember me if we ever met again. (For a report on that)
It wasn't the first time we'd spent time together, though by far the longest and the most personal--hanging out in his kitchen for an hour talking bike racing. Our previous encounters had been just casual brief exchanges that might not have been enough to establish a connection, though they had, so I was certain my time at his house had fully solidified our friendship.
But still, some friends suspected that he might fit the profile of the big time athlete, as a two-time Olympian and two time top-ten finisher in The Tour de France, who has little concern for anyone but himself.
I hadn't detected any such airs in Christian. He was in no hurry to usher me out of his house when I visited. If he was a big shot he could have had me just leave the markers I'd brought out for him with the security guard to his housing development and pretend he wasn't home, but no, he actually came out of his house and was waiting for me in his driveway when I pulled up.
I knew he was a genuinely good guy. I had no doubt that even if our next encounter was at some small French village during the hubbub of The Tour, he would greet me with a hearty smile and exuberant "How ya doin'."
I got to put my theory to a test last night when he had an appearance at the Garmin store of his team sponsor in downtown Chicago. He'd be signing autographs and then giving a Q&A.
When a friend and I arrived shortly after five, the lobby of the store was already mobbed and there was a line of fans waiting for an autograph nearly out the door. I had no need of an autograph, so went upstairs to the small auditorium to take a seat.
My friend and I were among the first upstairs and could have sat anywhere. We chose a couple of seats in the back row to overlook the proceedings. It was nearly an hour before Christian had finished with the autographs and came up.
Those of us waiting saw a couple minute Garmin team promo, still including Bradley Wiggins, over and over again on a large screen. The snippets of the racing never grew tiresome.
As Christian walked up the aisle to the stage he looked over his shoulder and seemed to notice me and gave a quick wave. I turned to my friend and said, "I think that was for me." He agreed.
After a brief introduction by a Garmin PR person, a scattering of hands went up into the air, including mine. Christian looked squarely at me this time and said, "George, you can have the first one."
I thanked him. I considered asking, "What is the biggest loss to your team, Bradley Wiggins or Dr. Lim?," but thought that might not be so much to his liking. Dr. Lim was the team's long-time physiologist and was given a good share of credit for the team's success with his many innovative approaches to training and conditioning. He had just left the team to join Lance's Radio Shack team, a seeming betrayal.
Instead, I asked him a question that has long been on my mind, but had never gotten around to asking a rider in the peloton. I'd always wanted to know if riders just randomly toss their empty water bottles off to the side of the road or if they try to pick out a worthy recipient, someone wearing their team colors or waving their national flag or someone with a cute smile. I knew that members of the caravan of sponsors that precede the racers clearly make choices when they are tossing their goodies to the crowd and they are driving along at close to the same speed as the racers, though they don't have to worry about paying attention to the wheel inches in front of them.
Christian acknowledged that he does try to be selective when he can, and when he can't, he makes sure he tosses his bottle somewhere that someone can retrieve it rather than in a creek or down a mountain side. Then he added, "Whoever gets my bottle, I hope they wash it before using it."
Quite a few astute racing questions followed from the surprisingly race-savvy audience. A young boy wanted to know how much sleep Christian gets during The Tour. He said, "You might think I'd get 12 or 14 hours, but I can get by on 8 or 9."
Someone else asked if he ever used an oxygen tent. He said he never had, partially because he has a naturally high hematocrit level, but also because he'd heard so many stories of riders having a tough time sleeping in them, as they could be hot and sweaty.
The loss of Bradley Wiggins question was raised, though without bringing up Dr. Lim. Christian said the team would do just fine without him, despite his fourth place finish at last year's Tour. They'd replaced him with some fine racers, and one never knows who might be a surprise in the coming season as Wiggins was this past year and Christian himself the year before that. He said if Wiggins had decided to leave the team a year ago, rather than just this past month, no one would have been concerned about his loss.
Maybe the toughest question of the night came from a woman sitting in the front row. She wondered what his version was of what happened on the stage in the past Tour when his team helped chase down George Hincapie, who was in a breakaway group five minutes ahead of the peloton that would have put Hincapie in the Yellow Jersey if it maintained its lead. Hincapie was no threat to the overall leaders of The Tour and a well-liked rider throughout the peloton. It would have caused no harm to let him take the Yellow Jersey that day. It would have only been for a day, as there was a mountain stage the day after. But Garmin, for some inexplicable reason, rode hard to close the gap and prevented Hincapie from the Yellow Jersey by just a handful of seconds. Hincapie was crushed and a lot of recriminations flew.
Christian acknowledged that Hincapie was a good friend and always would be. "He stood up for me at my wedding," he said. "But when a race is on, it is team first and my director Matt White told us to close the gap and that's what we did."
It might have been a different story if that had been the experimental stage when the riders rode without earpieces receiving instant and non-stop orders from their directors. Christian said he greatly appreciated the one stage they rode without radio contact with their director. He actually used the word "peaceful." He hoped there would be more such experiments, but it was probably too much to hope that the ear pieces would be banned altogether, as it could make the races considerably more dangerous with directors having to drive their cars up alongside the peloton to give orders and not be able to continually warn riders of dangers ahead--railroad tracks, sharps turns, tricky round-abouts, slick spots where accidents may have already occurred and so forth.
The subject of cobbles in next year's Tour was raised, as there will be an early stage raced on sections of the Paris-Roubaix route. Christian said he would certainly scout out that stage but he wouldn't really train for it, partially because it would be hard to know what lines would be available when there were thousands of people along the route and l89 racers in the thick of it, plus its never fun to be riding all out on these jarring cobbles, whether in training or in a race.
Of his race schedule next year he said it was looking most likely that he would be riding the Giro d'Italia rather than the Tour of California, as they are going up against each other in May next year for the first time. He would love to be in both places at the same time, but unfortunately that's not possible. He won't be riding in any of the spring classics. He said he's ridden them all in the past and finished in the top 20 in all of them except Paris-Roubaix. When he's raced Roubaix his responsibility has been to ride hard for the first 130 kilometers and then leave it to his teammates to finish the race. He said one year at the start Hincapie patted him on his back to see how many energy bars he was carrying in his jersey pocket. Hincapie was shocked that he only had one. That's all he needed for the amount of racing he had to do.
The one spring race he'd love to ride again is the Tour of Flanders. "Just thinking about that race gives me goose pimples," he said, and extended his arm as if to show us.
The questions could have gone on and on, but there was only time for a couple more. One was who he thought would be on the podium of next year's Tour along with him. He thought it would be pretty much the same as last year--Albert Contador and Andy Schleck and possibly Lance, unless Christian can unseat him. He added that there will be other contenders too and that it ought to be a great race, maybe one of the best ever.
I had my hand ready if there was any lull in questions, but there wasn't. I had to wait until afterward for some personal one-on-one time. "You're looking skinny," I complimented him. "Are you down to racing weight already?"
"No, I just had a haircut, that always makes me look thinner."
Then I asked, "So what's the biggest loss, Wiggins or Dr. Lim?"
Christian unhesitatingly answered, "Dr. Lim. He's a good friend, so I'm still in contact with him."
I wondered where Christian had placed the course markers I had brought him. "They are right at the entry to the house," he said, "But it's a new house. We're in the same area, but we've got six acres now."
I'd brought him a "L'Equipe," the French daily sports newspaper, from this past year's Tour with he and Lance filling the top half of the front page riding hard in the mountains chasing after Contador. He was very appreciative.
“I don't have many of these," he said.
Maybe that's what I can scavenge for him at next year's Tour. With luck there will be lots more featuring his picture. As he was ushered off by his handlers I said, "I'll see you in Rotterdam (the start of next year's Tour)."
"You're going to be there?" he asked.
“I wouldn't miss it. As you said, it's going to be a great race."
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