Is anybody out there a life coach? I think I need to talk to someone. I have a few questions about life. The phases we go through. The goals we set. The timeframes. What we consider important. Who we consider important? The basics of growing up. Now, I am not saying I want to grow up. That’s definitely not it. Ever since I understood the concept behind Peter Pan, I knew that he was the character I should aspire to be. And, I think I have done a pretty good job of it. All until now! I think I may have had my first epiphany. AAARGH, I am too young to be having those sorts of things. Well, that’s if I even had one or not. This growing up nonsense is so confusing. I bet the real Peter Pan never had an epiphany, EVER! I feel that during this AfriTour, I have been checking things off my bucket list at a rate of knots. What age are we meant to even have a bucket list? When in our lives do we address the challenges of the list? Whatever the answer is, I can’t reschedule the amazing things I have done, to a more Bucket-list-age-appropriate time in my life. So, I guess I have answered my own questions, right there! The latest tick on the list was a motorbike ride through Africa. I have ridden motorbikes in South Africa, but it is not quite the same as the helmet less, non-roadworthy, Serengeti Game path and dirt track experience, that I was fortunate to have yesterday. Up in this part of the world motorbikes are called everything but, motorbike. “Border-border” (said very quickly) is for the referral for the 2-wheeled steed, which has resonated within me. It was originally called this because of its duty to man. A no-passport needed mode of transport to carry you across the imaginary line that separates Kenya from Tanzania. This steed became the invisibility cloak, which granted you access into anywhere your heart desired. Grant, Seth and I managed to source a trio of “border-borders”, for our afternoon adventure, across the open plains and through the Maasai villages, which characterise the North Eastern block of the Serengeti. Seth, a former bike wrangler, was always going to get the most powerful of “border-borders” and then Grant and I left it up to chance, in a near raffle-like key selection. After a spluttering start, we descended the mountain, crossed the Grumeti River, and headed south. Each of us feeling out the paths and trying to understand our “border-borders”. The wind blew through our beards, tsetse flies got trapped in our smiles and the sound of loose breaks and wheel hubs echoed the vast valleys. Well for the first 30 min, at least. We weaved game trails, passing goats, cattle, wildlife and Maasai herdsmen, whilst trying to keep the bikes together, until eventually Seth’s bike coughed its self into a standstill. The mere fact that three pale faces were seen riding local bikes in remote areas was enough to cause a stir amongst the most rural of local folk, never mind us now being broken down. Two traditionally dressed men came to inspect the matter, but only stood in a typical style watching us ‘mzungus’ puzzle over plans to continue the trip. Maasai men all stand in the same fashion, which is to lean, cross-legged against their handcrafted walking sticks. A sight that, would almost always be worthy of a photo shoot. The bright red shuka wrapped elegantly over their shoulders, beaded dead-dresses, hanging ear lobes and beaded jewellery capable of holding anyone’s attention. It wasn’t long before we accepted our non-mechanic status, and strapped Seth’s bike to mine and headed back north. The trip back was always going to be interesting, considering my bike towing skills, or lack thereof. Bumpy tracks, drift crossings and loose rubble were not the most dangerous obstacles out there, rather, my complacency. As we covered ground, my confidence grew to skyscraper heights, until I misjudged a corner/crossing combo, forcing me to plant my foot on the ground at a relatively high speed, sending my trailer out to the right and into a wobble. After regaining balance and composure, it was agreed that I would take it easier to try make it home safely with fewer stories to tell (so blame Seth, when I have nothing more to write). Now, it might not sound as hectic as we felt to be, but add this to the equation: The towrope was extremely long and needed to be tied at a short length. The rest of the rope needed to be stored somewhere out of the way, and where better than in Seth’s backpack? Which he now had to wear on his stomach. So, had we fallen, Seth would have been dragged across the rough Serengeti rubble, with no escape. Then, lets add the non-existent medical facilities to the mix, and you have a downward spiral of disasters, which would have ultimately destroyed the AfriTour. Not only did we agree to slow things down, but Seth also, in an attempt to free himself from harm, cut Grant’s beloved rope, in an almost ripcord fashion, giving him the option abandoning the dragging wreck, should it occur. The slow ride, gave us time to appreciate where we were and glance outwards to the bomas and villages. It was at that stage where I realised why the border-borders were named as they were, because, boy did I feel untouchable. Bugger age-based bucket lists and growing up, because this aging thing makes me feel like a child.
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 10:32:41 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015