motorcycle diaries - the saga continues

i have had my license for awhile now, but the motorcycle remained elusive. partly "this is kenya" partly "kenyan government bureaucracy." the phone call came from a colleague yesterday.
"we are sending it to the courier as i speak to you. you should have it by tomorrow morning."

i have learned, however cynical it seems, to believe it when i see it.

but i couldn't help but stupidly grinning during the entire 45 minute walk to the junction today. a degree of freedom has finally come!! not being stuffed with 29 other people into a minivan!!

i ran several errands in town, waiting for the supposed phone call from the courier company. while crossing a street, a large truck from the company tried to run me over. when i started crossing, the driver actually stepped forcefully on the gas and i had to leap off the road. the passengers laughed as they passed.

i never received a phone call so i finally decided to just go there and hopefully my motorbike would run out to greet me. and of course, there it was, waiting patiently.

while one worker went to check on the status of the delivery, i asked the other woman if there was a fuel station nearby where i could get fuel. she stared blankly at me (she had just finished doing a massive nose pick, maybe she went too far and nudged some brain tissue).
"no, i don't know. there's no fuel."
"do you know where the nearest fuel station is?" i asked again.
"maybe around nakumatt?" she replied.
okay, nakumatt is a grocery store about 5 km away on a street with no gas stations in sight.
perhaps it was my strange canadian accent, so i tried again. and they don't call it gas here,
they call it fuel, but pronounce it more like fuewhhel.
"you know fuel, petrol, gas, benzine. that stuff you put into cars. is there a station close by where i can buy some?"
more blank staring.
"you have to go back into town for that. i don't know."
i was literally stunned. i think she still had no idea what i was talking about.

i was then allowed near my motorbike, and so i asked the new guy.
"do you know if there is a fuel station here where i can buy fuel?"
"yes, of course, just around the corner, only 20 metres away. i will get a jerry can from the mechanic."
okay, so it was not my accent, my english, or my wording. i don't know what was wrong with that girl.

he comes back with a jerry can but doesn't hand it over until he launches into a passionate plea how he is actually a pastor and is called to do the work of God, but it doesn't pay the bills, so he has to work for the courier company, but he wants to study counseling and do i know someone who can pay for his courses?
seriously, there is something about me getting a motorbike and people asking me for money. the police man who administered the driving test also asked me to pay for his sons university education in canada!

so i head on over to the fuel/gas station with an oil container where i ask the guy to please rinse all the oil out of it. he assures me it is no problem to put oil in the gas tank. i assure him that i want to take good care of my motorbike and therefore, no oil will enter the gas tank. as he is writing my receipt and before he hands me my change he says "so, you will let me keep the change?" with a big grin.
"no, you are not keeping the change." i say with a straight face (the change is almost $4, not something like 50 cents) and head back to the courier.

by then a small crowd has gathered, the mechanics came out to ogle the bike, but they were also very helpful in showing me all kinds of nooks and crannies on the bike. like where there is a small tool kit hidden under the seat, how to remove things, which buttons to press etc. they put my side mirrors on and got everything ready to go. i was very appreciative and was ready to jump on the bike and head home when it started to rain. hard. we ran for cover and hoped it would pass in a few minutes. not 30 minutes earlier i had been sweating in the sun!

i waited, and waited, and waited. i read the newspaper, sent text messages, ate some chips. told them how their delivery truck tried to run me over. it just rained harder. i asked God what he thought he was doing. i had waited months for this motorbike and then he sends a downpour? i decided to go into town to eat and wait some more. i just couldn't bear to go home without my motorbike.

i slowly ate my coconut chicken, took photos for the people at the neighbouring table, drank some bad instant coffee and stared out the window as it continued to rain. i seriously asked God what he was doing. as if my patience was not tested enough! the problem was, there is really no dry way for me to get home except in a taxi, which costs a fortune. i could have taken a matatu to the dirt road, but then i would literally have to stand in the rain waiting for a random car to hopefully go to my village. i decided to wait some more.

i bought some groceries at the aforementioned nakumatt and emerged from the store hopeful. only a few drops! good enough for me! i headed back to the courier company. i decided to catch a cab because i was tired of walking back and forth. the driver stopped to put in half a litre of gas. yes, half a litre into a car. but with gas costing about $1.80 a litre and most people here make a fraction of a north american or european salary, i suppose that is understandable. we had an interesting conversation about why the people in his Christian church wear turbans and he asked me how it is possible that a "born again" Christian smokes because that is a grave sin that apparently negates your faith. i explained that yes, smoking is a sin, but no more a sin than gossiping, swearing, getting angry, or any other sin that any non-smoking Christian commits. so how can we judge someone else's faith in Jesus Christ because "their sin" is more evident than ours. he thanked me and said he understood my point.

finally, back with my motorbike, no rain, gas (or shall i say fuel) in the tank, ready to go. a bunch of armed police men in camouflage were standing around my bike. i asked them if they were the army or worked for the courier company. apparently, they are the army for "private hire" because they have guns and the company doesn't. i asked one guy if the guns were actually loaded and he suddenly popped out the part that holds the bullets, and well, there were alot of bullets. i jumped a bit when he popped it out (i haven't watched enough movies to know what that piece of the gun is called). they all laughed at me. six guys with loaded machine guns. i guess it is better to have them laughing at me than be angry with me... they assured me the safety catch was on and they all proceeded to show me their guns. i thanked them profusely, then was ready to go.

well, i couldn't get it going. i had to get the mechanic to start it. seems that i am so nervous that my legs are like jelly and don't have the strength to even kick start it!

by this time, it is rush hour traffic. could be okay, or i could die. rush hour traffic is not north american rush hour traffic. it is not nice and orderly. it is wazimu. crazy.
i only had to go straight down one road. but people really don't think lanes are important here, or signaling, or not overtaking when it isn't safe. throw in the pedestrians darting out of nowhere, huge trucks passing me with only a whisper inbetween us, and you have a very nervous alida. my first time riding a motorbike on a road, in rush hour traffic after a rain storm. (well, there was riding a moped in florence, italy, with no helmet, through 8 lanes of traffic... but you know i was 20 and invincible).
i make it out of town and onto the highway. the praying begins. big time.
it is amazing how complacent i have become as the passenger in a matatu. it seems normal to swerve on the road to avoid potholes and have cars driving in your lane, except they are coming at you, from the opposite direction. i don't usually blink when it happens. someone calls "chicken" and moves. however, now i am the chicken. all the time. several cars are coming straight at me and all i can think to myself is "holy sh#!? where am i going to go?" there is no shoulder, only a sharp drop off to some dirt.
i realize how vulnerable i am on a motorbike. on a bicycle, i actually feel safer. i can move easier as my bike only weighs 20 pounds instead of 200. now, i am at the mercy of the other vehicles. i can drive safely all i want, but if that car decides to overtake at the last minute... i just prayed that i would black out immediately and not feel the pain!

i finally arrived at the junction, where i now have to drive through mud.
"Come on God, all of this in one day?"
i stop and greet my fellow motorbike drivers. i get alot of handshakes, and "jepkemboi, can i please drive it, just a little ways?"
i decline and make my way through the mud. it is kind of like hydroplaning, for 4 km.
i park it in the rickety garage next to the vehicle straight out of "the gods must be crazy" and breathe a massive sigh of relief.
now i am not much of a charismatic person at heart, but i wanted to holler "Praise God!"

this is kenya.
and these are my motorcycle diaries.
now, please pray.