Towards black Africa

Translation courtesy of Juan Vanecek

Once we arrived in Lodwar we finally left the "sandpit" we had gone through to enter Kenya along the west coast of the lake Turkana. In this little city we thought the worst had been over, but leaving Lodwar would only show us that we were just moving on to a new tough stage in our journey to Black Africa.

Land of warriors

Translation courtesy of  Natalia Gouric

Getting to Omo valley had already been a transfer in time and space to a completely different dimension, different to everything that I have ever experienced. However, that experience was stained by the deeply negative effects of tourism in that region. But after crossing the Omo river at Omorate everything would be radically transformed. There, with the exit stamp of Ethiopia already in the passport, we put the bikes into a traditional Dassanech canoe to cross the legendary river and set upon one of the most rigorous, remote and unpredictable stretches of the entire East of Africa: the unstable no-man’s land of the triple border between Ethiopia, Kenia and South Sudan. Very few times in my life I have waited for something with such an anxiety and now, I was finally about to receive the great dose of adrenaline that this experience would bring with.

The Omo Circus

Warning: many of the commentaries and opinions that you will be about to read might sound very harsh, but I promise they are the most accurate account of the frequently miserable experience that is crossing Ethiopia by bicycle. Given the radical difference that exists between those of us who travel by bicycle across this country (and those who walk the world too) and those who travel by any kind of motorised transport, I don't feel particularly well predisposed to accept any objections coming from those who haven't crossed it in the same way.

Translation courtesy of Pato Stickar

The departure from Addis was the starting point of our long scape from Ethiopia. We had already spent a month and a half in the middle of the country, and our general state of mind and predisposition was exponentially decreasing each extra day we spent there. Leaving Addis was unusually calm, we passed pretty much unnoticed and barely bothered by anyone. So much that, at the end of the second day, a fresh optimistic air filled our lungs; the worst seemed to had been left behind and the last days seemed as though they were going to be good. We were on our way to the remote and inhospitable lands of the tribal countries and one of the most enigmatic crossing borders of the continent, but to get there, we would discover that the worst hadn’t yet even happened.