Firstly apologies for the radio silence - took me an age and a half to get back to civilization.
I don’t really no what to say about the rest of Ethiopia. Quite simply it went from bad to worse. Terrible place to cycle. I don’t recommend it.
The locals continued to hound me and whilst they calmed down a touch on the stone throwing side the tirade of abuse continued. It started as soon as I walked out my hotel room and went on until it gets dark at which stage can’t work out if you’re a local or not. I think the secret to my success in stopping the stone throwing was flashing the whip I’d confiscated off a donkey cart driver who’d used it against me. It soon sends the kids scattering.
Nothing demonstrates what you’re up against cycling through Ethiopia better than my visit to a small town a couple of hundred kilometers from the relatively civilized Addis. I don’t think many foreigners have this place on high their list of tourist destinations. I suspect very few if any even bother to wind down their windows as they drive past.
I pedaled into this town (can’t remember the name it’s not important they are all as bad as each other) and was surprised to find that for the first time in days I was not the center of attention. Brilliant. No chants of ‘YOU, YOU, YOU, MONEY”, no stones to avoid, no sticks to dodge. I felt like a celebrity hounded by the paparazzi slipping out the side door. I crept on, keeping my head down hoping to glide pass unnoticed. It was quite exciting. I really felt I might just, for once, cycle right through the middle of a town unnoticed and unscathed.
I didn’t really pay too much attention to the throng of people running around across the road from me. They appeared to be chasing something, perhaps there was some kind of festival or celebration on. Quite frankly so long as they weren’t chasing me I couldn’t give a monkeys.
Only when I’d nearly got past the main crowd did it seem to turn and lurch towards me. Rather strangely at its head was a naked woman. Not as pleasant sight as it could have been. I did briefly think this was rather odd but didn’t think either me or my bike was at risk. I guessed it was some type of local festival or celebration – one to look up in the guide book later.
By the time I realized that this crazy lady was heading right for me it was too late. Whilst I have in the past had some limited experience of young, topless maidens throwing themselves at me none have attempted it with quite the ferocity or determination as this particular one.
Whilst I was enjoying polishing my ego at being the chosen, the most handsome man in town she was taking a full hop, skip and jump on to my bike. It was unfortunate that she was not either particularly sane or particularly light. Her efforts managed to buckle my rather flash and expensive rear wheel send both the bicycle and me tumbling. Once she'd wrestled me to the ground her attack continued. It was a bit of a tricky situation to find oneself in.
The last time I got into a tussle with a girl was an epic fight with my elder siste and I can’t have been much over 10. Matts v Matts in a tent in Salcombe must rank up there alongside Ali v Frazier in the Thriller in Manila. For the record she only won as a result of a maliciously aimed kick. I haven’t fought a girl or been on a camping holiday in England since. To be honest I’m not sure if I’ve ever really been in a proper fight – absolutely zero man points for me I know.
I was in a bit of a Catch 22 situation. I could either put up with being punched by some crazy, naked women who had already wrestled me to the ground or try and fend her off. Fortunately the crowd came to my rescue and dragged her away leaving me with a knackered bike, a few cuts and bruises and very little dignity.
Having dusted myself down and assessed the damage in true Ethiopian style the woman returned and instead of offering to make some type of contribution towards repairing the bike demanded that I gave her money. The cheek. I don’t think she was so crazy that she failed to understand the jist of my response.
Having broken one flash, expensive wheel I set about installing a local one. 50km later that one broke so I fitted a new one that nearly manage to last a further 20 km and so it went on until I’d bent, shattered and broken four wheels in nearly as many days. To make matters worse I got knocked for six with food poisoning. Trying to force down the Ethiopian delicacy and normally the only food available of raw meat and injerra (looks like a dirty dish cloth, tastes worse) four or five times a day is hard enough at the best of times but with a dickie tummy is impossible.
Nearly six weeks after I entered this god forsaken country I finally managed to escape over the border to Kenya. My experience was sufficiently terrible to warrant a letter of complaint to the Ethiopian Tourism Commission. I very much doubt it will be of any use but it gave me an outlet for my misery – I attach a copy of it below for your amusement.
Leaving Ethiopia and entering Kenya was a cause for celebration and besides being whipped pretty hard with a stick by a young boy a few kilometers in from the border (probably an Ethiopian immigrant) the Kenyans have shown themselves to be so much more friendly than their Ethiopian counterparts. They are very welcoming and seem really pleased that you’ve come to travel to their country.
There is one problem with Kenya and that’s the road which immediately greets you as you cross from Ethiopia. It runs from the border town of Moyale, through Marsabit to Isiolo and is one of the worse in Africa. It’s 500+km of unpaved hell and has a reputation amongst overlanders for destroying even the most hardy of vehicles. With the seemingly endless corrugations (basically bad bumps) even vehicles with decent suspension get rattled apart. To top matters off there’s a few local bandits and Somalian baddies lurking around to pick you off.
The question of whether or not to attempt to cycle this stretch of road has plagued me since I started planning this trip. I did look into taking a pretty major detour to the west and following a pretty isolated road down Lake Turkana but the food poisoning, broken bike, rumors of an outbreak of cholera and long distances between water stops put play to that.
I'd changed my mind almost daily as to what the best possible route to take or whether to take it at all. Almost all cyclists jump on a truck. One Norwegian cyclist who’d attempted a few months earlier had ended up in hospital and the locals later informed us that they hadn’t seen a cyclist for three years. This might have had something to do with the description one of my Kenyan buddies gave of the situation ‘At the moment there is a bit of trouble up north with Pokot warriors… they seem to be having gun battles with AK-47s…” Hmmm... Friendly.
Whilst I think the situation with regards being plucked off by some African wielding an AK47 has improved slightly over the past few months its enough to make you think twice. The Foreign Office suggests it would be pretty foolhardy to travel without an armed convoy and travelers coming north all recommended I loaded the bike on top of a truck and bused that part of the trip.
Its times like this that I think you need to be very aware of your weaknesses. As much as I would love to claim to have cycled every inch of the journey from Cairo to Cape Town I didn’t want my pride to draw me into a situation I would regret. I do after all want to make Cape Town in one piece. It’s the type of situations where I’m sure I would be absolutely fine to cycle it 99 times out of 100 but there is a small but significant possibility that it could all go tits up.
The result was a compromise. I ended up on the roof of a cattle lorry for the first 250km from Moyale to Marsabit. I gave a great deal of thought as to whether or not I would look back and regret not cycling this small section. I don’t think I will. The reason I’m doing this journey is for an adventure, is to see Africa and meet its people, is to ensure I don’t drift through life without ever challenging myself and to take some time out to figure out how to live the rest of it. I don’t think hitching a couple of hundred kilometers will change that – it might dent my bragging rights but to be honest cycling 15,000km across Africa is still a bloody hard work.
In hindsight I don’t actually think clinging to the roof of a cattle lorry as it hurtled at 60km down Africa’s worse road is actually much safe than cycling through bandit country but the ride itself provided an adventure of a different type. It did though come at a cost as the vibrations resulted in a broken axel, cycle computer, mudguard, gears and brakes but at least my wheels somehow stayed firm.
Having hitched through what I understood to be the worst of the bandit country I jumped off at Marsabit with 250 odd kilometers of terrible road to cycle until the tarmac at Isiolo. I think this section of road is actually worse than the section I hitched. It was or so I believed bandit free and couldn’t be harder than doing battle with Ethiopian children.
As it turned out I was only half right. It was actually this section that had the bandits. On appearing in one small village the locals started to get quite excited warning me not to go any further as I was at risked of being hijacked (for a bike?), robbed or worse. Only when I explained I was going south did they look slightly surprised, calmed down and told me the coast was clear from now on but not to cycle that stretch again. I assured them I wasn’t tempted too.
To cycle along scarcely above walking pace over sharp bumps from dawn to dusk for three days on end with a solid leather saddle and no suspension leaves you with a rather tender and sore arse. It got so bad I began to fear that I might have done some serious damage. It not just your buttocks that feel the strain. Falling off your bike and having to pick yourself back up again three or four times an hour in boiling heat is also pretty exhausting. It is this section that Ewan McGregor and Charlie boor man struggled with during their ‘Long Way Down’ trip and they were on motorbike. The road really was atrocious - at times we just road alonside it through the bush just to escape the corrugations. Still anything is preferable to those damn Ethiopians.
I know a couple of you (not everyone - perhaps just my Mother) were feeling guilty that I’d be pedaling through the middle of nowhere eating nothing but beans and bread as you settled in for Christmas turkey. You really shouldn’t have. I clocked in with friends in Gil Gil assisted with the dramatic but humane slaughter of Dave the Turkey courtesy of a hockey stick (there is a video of the incident somewhere but not sure if it’s suitable for public viewing). Dave’s life was not lost in vain. When mixed with roast potatoes, gravy, banoffee pie and some adventurous baking he tasted very good.
Having cycled pretty much continuously for two months and completed what I suspect will be the hardest leg of my trip the chance to put my feet up for a few days and take up the boys’ invitation for a trip down to the coast for some New Years Eve partying was too tempting – especially when the other option is to struggle on with a broken bike and a sore arse.
To the coast it was. I was incredibly well looked after crashing first in an incredible house where you sip your cold beer in the pool over looking the Indian Ocean (you guys enjoying the snow flurries at home…?) before chilling out on a yacht. This was certainly a more civilized way to live than a bike with a tent strapped to the back of it.
New Years Eve took place on the beach just north of Mombassa. Having been promised by my friends that the Kenyan know how to party I wasn’t disappointed. I had to be dragged off the beach long after dawn having brought new years day in with quite some style. The party definitely deserved ten out of ten.
I’m now in Nairobi running around trying to get my bike fixed. Like most things in Africa it seems to take longer than you expect but today I finally met with the mechanic purchased wheel number six, a new axel, reclaimed 22 of my 27 gears (hard work climbing hills with only five!) and repair the rest of the damage that’s been inflicted on it over the past 9,000km or so. With luck I’ll be fleeing Nairobi on Sunday morning and speeding south towards Tanzania.
Dennis, the Swedish cyclist who shared the joys of Ethiopia with me cracked on ahead of me over Christmas and I suspect I’ll have to go like lightening to catch him up again. I have though completed the hardest leg of my tour and it must be down hill to Cape Town. I still don’t really have a dickie when I’m going to finish or even which route I’m gong to take to get there but I'm sure it will continue to be an incredible experience.
Good news on the fundraising front – I’ve now hit the big 1000 pounds on and off line with Gift Aid on top. Many thanks to all you generous bods who’ve chipped in. If you would like to help me support Hazel Footprints Trust – a very worthwhile cause the easiest and most painless way is by visiting http://www.justgiving.com/Cycle-to-Cape-Town . Whilst I may have put my feet up over Christmas and the New Year the cycling has been incredibly tough at times and I am still proudly sporting my Lycra.
If you’ve managed top plough through all the above – well done. It should be easier to update the blog more regularly from now on.
Wishing you all a belated Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and best of luck with your snow shovels.
Georgex
LETTER TO THE ETHIOPIAN TOURISM COMMISSION
Dear Sirs
I have recently completed a six week cycle tour through Ethiopia from Metama to Moyale. It was miserable.
On the plus side the roads aren’t too bad and the hills whilst bloody hard work to climb provide some really breath taking views. The problem is the people.
Bearing in mind that us Westerners cough up nearly $2 billion a year to you guys I was expecting a dose of hospitality and a warm welcome. Possibly even a demonstration of how grateful the Ethiopian people are for the money they receive for doing bugger all each year. If for example I received a steady allowance that size I'd show as much charm and good grace as I could muster to my kind benefactors. I can't really say that I've come away feeling that you’re thankful for all this wonga that gets thrown at you let alone that it done any good.
Allow me to enlighten you as to the moments of my Ethiopian travels that really stick out. Those special times that will forever stay with me and I will recall for years to come.
The first not altogether pleasant surprise was that the rather innocent looking Ethiopian children have a liking for pelting tourists with stones. I'm not sure who taught them this trick - it seems to be common nationwide but it can be pretty terrifying. Perhaps it’s okay when you’re sitting comfortably in a Land cruiser or gazing out the window of a bus but its bloody terrifying on a bicycle. I became nervous, even scared when approaching a group of children and wished I'd packed my body amour to deal with the onslaught from all sides.
Even if I put the stone throwing routine down to some type of obscure tribal welcome routine I really did struggle to enjoy the verbal harassment I was constantly subjected to. I don't mind hearing the occasional chant of "YOU, YOU, YOU, MONEY" but I had it thousands of times a day. It does start to grate a touch. Who on earth do all you Ethiopian's think I am? I must have had tens of thousands of demands for money - bit much for a scruffy looking bloke on a knackered pushbike
On the subject of knackered pushbikes I must tell you of one most memorial incidents during my visit. Whilst quietly cycling through a small town in Southern Ethiopia I got attacked by a crazy naked woman who broke my bike. In proper Ethiopian fashion rather than offering to pay for my rather smart $200 wheel she did the usual trick of demanding money off me. The cheek. This is true - you can't make stories this unbelievable up.
Its not just your average Ethiopian, or the crazy naked ones who make a tourist's life a misery it’s also your hoteliers - you would have thought they at least would have a vested interest in encouraging tourism. Once you have agreed a price for a room and lugged your bicycle up the stairs into it the room price suddenly increases at a remarkable rate. There not even discreet about the reasons why 'we charge double because you are white'. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor just because you’re white. Not only does being on the receiving end of this treatment piss me off me but its a bloody rip off when all your getting is the use of one of the worlds worse toilets and a flee infested bedroom which you have to lock yourself in to protect yourself from the equally flee infested prostitutes clawing at your door.
I'm not quite sure what you can do to rectify the situation but until you come up with some bright ideas and buck up your act I think your better off discouraging western tourist altogether. At least that way they are less likely to discover what they are wasting the $2 billion on each year and divert the funds to people who deserve and will be grateful for receiving it. If there one thing that I will take away from my Ethiopian experience it is that I shall try and ensure that when I give to charity my donations go to the millions of equally poor but incredibly welcoming folk elsewhere in the world.
Having endured far too many days of misery cycling through the hell hole that is Ethiopia I'm afraid I really can't recommend the experience to anyone.
I've traveled to nearly 50 countries and I can comprehensively say that none are as bad as yours
I do hope you have found this feedback beneficial.
Please do feel welcome to circulate it - I shall.
Yours faithfully
George Matts
PS - Not even sure if your advertising slogan of "13 months of Sunshine" is correct. It rained during both November and December when I was there and I saw bugger all in the way of sunshine.
I don’t really no what to say about the rest of Ethiopia. Quite simply it went from bad to worse. Terrible place to cycle. I don’t recommend it.
The locals continued to hound me and whilst they calmed down a touch on the stone throwing side the tirade of abuse continued. It started as soon as I walked out my hotel room and went on until it gets dark at which stage can’t work out if you’re a local or not. I think the secret to my success in stopping the stone throwing was flashing the whip I’d confiscated off a donkey cart driver who’d used it against me. It soon sends the kids scattering.
Nothing demonstrates what you’re up against cycling through Ethiopia better than my visit to a small town a couple of hundred kilometers from the relatively civilized Addis. I don’t think many foreigners have this place on high their list of tourist destinations. I suspect very few if any even bother to wind down their windows as they drive past.
I pedaled into this town (can’t remember the name it’s not important they are all as bad as each other) and was surprised to find that for the first time in days I was not the center of attention. Brilliant. No chants of ‘YOU, YOU, YOU, MONEY”, no stones to avoid, no sticks to dodge. I felt like a celebrity hounded by the paparazzi slipping out the side door. I crept on, keeping my head down hoping to glide pass unnoticed. It was quite exciting. I really felt I might just, for once, cycle right through the middle of a town unnoticed and unscathed.
I didn’t really pay too much attention to the throng of people running around across the road from me. They appeared to be chasing something, perhaps there was some kind of festival or celebration on. Quite frankly so long as they weren’t chasing me I couldn’t give a monkeys.
Only when I’d nearly got past the main crowd did it seem to turn and lurch towards me. Rather strangely at its head was a naked woman. Not as pleasant sight as it could have been. I did briefly think this was rather odd but didn’t think either me or my bike was at risk. I guessed it was some type of local festival or celebration – one to look up in the guide book later.
By the time I realized that this crazy lady was heading right for me it was too late. Whilst I have in the past had some limited experience of young, topless maidens throwing themselves at me none have attempted it with quite the ferocity or determination as this particular one.
Whilst I was enjoying polishing my ego at being the chosen, the most handsome man in town she was taking a full hop, skip and jump on to my bike. It was unfortunate that she was not either particularly sane or particularly light. Her efforts managed to buckle my rather flash and expensive rear wheel send both the bicycle and me tumbling. Once she'd wrestled me to the ground her attack continued. It was a bit of a tricky situation to find oneself in.
The last time I got into a tussle with a girl was an epic fight with my elder siste and I can’t have been much over 10. Matts v Matts in a tent in Salcombe must rank up there alongside Ali v Frazier in the Thriller in Manila. For the record she only won as a result of a maliciously aimed kick. I haven’t fought a girl or been on a camping holiday in England since. To be honest I’m not sure if I’ve ever really been in a proper fight – absolutely zero man points for me I know.
I was in a bit of a Catch 22 situation. I could either put up with being punched by some crazy, naked women who had already wrestled me to the ground or try and fend her off. Fortunately the crowd came to my rescue and dragged her away leaving me with a knackered bike, a few cuts and bruises and very little dignity.
Having dusted myself down and assessed the damage in true Ethiopian style the woman returned and instead of offering to make some type of contribution towards repairing the bike demanded that I gave her money. The cheek. I don’t think she was so crazy that she failed to understand the jist of my response.
Having broken one flash, expensive wheel I set about installing a local one. 50km later that one broke so I fitted a new one that nearly manage to last a further 20 km and so it went on until I’d bent, shattered and broken four wheels in nearly as many days. To make matters worse I got knocked for six with food poisoning. Trying to force down the Ethiopian delicacy and normally the only food available of raw meat and injerra (looks like a dirty dish cloth, tastes worse) four or five times a day is hard enough at the best of times but with a dickie tummy is impossible.
Nearly six weeks after I entered this god forsaken country I finally managed to escape over the border to Kenya. My experience was sufficiently terrible to warrant a letter of complaint to the Ethiopian Tourism Commission. I very much doubt it will be of any use but it gave me an outlet for my misery – I attach a copy of it below for your amusement.
Leaving Ethiopia and entering Kenya was a cause for celebration and besides being whipped pretty hard with a stick by a young boy a few kilometers in from the border (probably an Ethiopian immigrant) the Kenyans have shown themselves to be so much more friendly than their Ethiopian counterparts. They are very welcoming and seem really pleased that you’ve come to travel to their country.
There is one problem with Kenya and that’s the road which immediately greets you as you cross from Ethiopia. It runs from the border town of Moyale, through Marsabit to Isiolo and is one of the worse in Africa. It’s 500+km of unpaved hell and has a reputation amongst overlanders for destroying even the most hardy of vehicles. With the seemingly endless corrugations (basically bad bumps) even vehicles with decent suspension get rattled apart. To top matters off there’s a few local bandits and Somalian baddies lurking around to pick you off.
The question of whether or not to attempt to cycle this stretch of road has plagued me since I started planning this trip. I did look into taking a pretty major detour to the west and following a pretty isolated road down Lake Turkana but the food poisoning, broken bike, rumors of an outbreak of cholera and long distances between water stops put play to that.
I'd changed my mind almost daily as to what the best possible route to take or whether to take it at all. Almost all cyclists jump on a truck. One Norwegian cyclist who’d attempted a few months earlier had ended up in hospital and the locals later informed us that they hadn’t seen a cyclist for three years. This might have had something to do with the description one of my Kenyan buddies gave of the situation ‘At the moment there is a bit of trouble up north with Pokot warriors… they seem to be having gun battles with AK-47s…” Hmmm... Friendly.
Whilst I think the situation with regards being plucked off by some African wielding an AK47 has improved slightly over the past few months its enough to make you think twice. The Foreign Office suggests it would be pretty foolhardy to travel without an armed convoy and travelers coming north all recommended I loaded the bike on top of a truck and bused that part of the trip.
Its times like this that I think you need to be very aware of your weaknesses. As much as I would love to claim to have cycled every inch of the journey from Cairo to Cape Town I didn’t want my pride to draw me into a situation I would regret. I do after all want to make Cape Town in one piece. It’s the type of situations where I’m sure I would be absolutely fine to cycle it 99 times out of 100 but there is a small but significant possibility that it could all go tits up.
The result was a compromise. I ended up on the roof of a cattle lorry for the first 250km from Moyale to Marsabit. I gave a great deal of thought as to whether or not I would look back and regret not cycling this small section. I don’t think I will. The reason I’m doing this journey is for an adventure, is to see Africa and meet its people, is to ensure I don’t drift through life without ever challenging myself and to take some time out to figure out how to live the rest of it. I don’t think hitching a couple of hundred kilometers will change that – it might dent my bragging rights but to be honest cycling 15,000km across Africa is still a bloody hard work.
In hindsight I don’t actually think clinging to the roof of a cattle lorry as it hurtled at 60km down Africa’s worse road is actually much safe than cycling through bandit country but the ride itself provided an adventure of a different type. It did though come at a cost as the vibrations resulted in a broken axel, cycle computer, mudguard, gears and brakes but at least my wheels somehow stayed firm.
Having hitched through what I understood to be the worst of the bandit country I jumped off at Marsabit with 250 odd kilometers of terrible road to cycle until the tarmac at Isiolo. I think this section of road is actually worse than the section I hitched. It was or so I believed bandit free and couldn’t be harder than doing battle with Ethiopian children.
As it turned out I was only half right. It was actually this section that had the bandits. On appearing in one small village the locals started to get quite excited warning me not to go any further as I was at risked of being hijacked (for a bike?), robbed or worse. Only when I explained I was going south did they look slightly surprised, calmed down and told me the coast was clear from now on but not to cycle that stretch again. I assured them I wasn’t tempted too.
To cycle along scarcely above walking pace over sharp bumps from dawn to dusk for three days on end with a solid leather saddle and no suspension leaves you with a rather tender and sore arse. It got so bad I began to fear that I might have done some serious damage. It not just your buttocks that feel the strain. Falling off your bike and having to pick yourself back up again three or four times an hour in boiling heat is also pretty exhausting. It is this section that Ewan McGregor and Charlie boor man struggled with during their ‘Long Way Down’ trip and they were on motorbike. The road really was atrocious - at times we just road alonside it through the bush just to escape the corrugations. Still anything is preferable to those damn Ethiopians.
I know a couple of you (not everyone - perhaps just my Mother) were feeling guilty that I’d be pedaling through the middle of nowhere eating nothing but beans and bread as you settled in for Christmas turkey. You really shouldn’t have. I clocked in with friends in Gil Gil assisted with the dramatic but humane slaughter of Dave the Turkey courtesy of a hockey stick (there is a video of the incident somewhere but not sure if it’s suitable for public viewing). Dave’s life was not lost in vain. When mixed with roast potatoes, gravy, banoffee pie and some adventurous baking he tasted very good.
Having cycled pretty much continuously for two months and completed what I suspect will be the hardest leg of my trip the chance to put my feet up for a few days and take up the boys’ invitation for a trip down to the coast for some New Years Eve partying was too tempting – especially when the other option is to struggle on with a broken bike and a sore arse.
To the coast it was. I was incredibly well looked after crashing first in an incredible house where you sip your cold beer in the pool over looking the Indian Ocean (you guys enjoying the snow flurries at home…?) before chilling out on a yacht. This was certainly a more civilized way to live than a bike with a tent strapped to the back of it.
New Years Eve took place on the beach just north of Mombassa. Having been promised by my friends that the Kenyan know how to party I wasn’t disappointed. I had to be dragged off the beach long after dawn having brought new years day in with quite some style. The party definitely deserved ten out of ten.
I’m now in Nairobi running around trying to get my bike fixed. Like most things in Africa it seems to take longer than you expect but today I finally met with the mechanic purchased wheel number six, a new axel, reclaimed 22 of my 27 gears (hard work climbing hills with only five!) and repair the rest of the damage that’s been inflicted on it over the past 9,000km or so. With luck I’ll be fleeing Nairobi on Sunday morning and speeding south towards Tanzania.
Dennis, the Swedish cyclist who shared the joys of Ethiopia with me cracked on ahead of me over Christmas and I suspect I’ll have to go like lightening to catch him up again. I have though completed the hardest leg of my tour and it must be down hill to Cape Town. I still don’t really have a dickie when I’m going to finish or even which route I’m gong to take to get there but I'm sure it will continue to be an incredible experience.
Good news on the fundraising front – I’ve now hit the big 1000 pounds on and off line with Gift Aid on top. Many thanks to all you generous bods who’ve chipped in. If you would like to help me support Hazel Footprints Trust – a very worthwhile cause the easiest and most painless way is by visiting http://www.justgiving.com/Cycle-to-Cape-Town . Whilst I may have put my feet up over Christmas and the New Year the cycling has been incredibly tough at times and I am still proudly sporting my Lycra.
If you’ve managed top plough through all the above – well done. It should be easier to update the blog more regularly from now on.
Wishing you all a belated Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and best of luck with your snow shovels.
Georgex
LETTER TO THE ETHIOPIAN TOURISM COMMISSION
Dear Sirs
I have recently completed a six week cycle tour through Ethiopia from Metama to Moyale. It was miserable.
On the plus side the roads aren’t too bad and the hills whilst bloody hard work to climb provide some really breath taking views. The problem is the people.
Bearing in mind that us Westerners cough up nearly $2 billion a year to you guys I was expecting a dose of hospitality and a warm welcome. Possibly even a demonstration of how grateful the Ethiopian people are for the money they receive for doing bugger all each year. If for example I received a steady allowance that size I'd show as much charm and good grace as I could muster to my kind benefactors. I can't really say that I've come away feeling that you’re thankful for all this wonga that gets thrown at you let alone that it done any good.
Allow me to enlighten you as to the moments of my Ethiopian travels that really stick out. Those special times that will forever stay with me and I will recall for years to come.
The first not altogether pleasant surprise was that the rather innocent looking Ethiopian children have a liking for pelting tourists with stones. I'm not sure who taught them this trick - it seems to be common nationwide but it can be pretty terrifying. Perhaps it’s okay when you’re sitting comfortably in a Land cruiser or gazing out the window of a bus but its bloody terrifying on a bicycle. I became nervous, even scared when approaching a group of children and wished I'd packed my body amour to deal with the onslaught from all sides.
Even if I put the stone throwing routine down to some type of obscure tribal welcome routine I really did struggle to enjoy the verbal harassment I was constantly subjected to. I don't mind hearing the occasional chant of "YOU, YOU, YOU, MONEY" but I had it thousands of times a day. It does start to grate a touch. Who on earth do all you Ethiopian's think I am? I must have had tens of thousands of demands for money - bit much for a scruffy looking bloke on a knackered pushbike
On the subject of knackered pushbikes I must tell you of one most memorial incidents during my visit. Whilst quietly cycling through a small town in Southern Ethiopia I got attacked by a crazy naked woman who broke my bike. In proper Ethiopian fashion rather than offering to pay for my rather smart $200 wheel she did the usual trick of demanding money off me. The cheek. This is true - you can't make stories this unbelievable up.
Its not just your average Ethiopian, or the crazy naked ones who make a tourist's life a misery it’s also your hoteliers - you would have thought they at least would have a vested interest in encouraging tourism. Once you have agreed a price for a room and lugged your bicycle up the stairs into it the room price suddenly increases at a remarkable rate. There not even discreet about the reasons why 'we charge double because you are white'. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor just because you’re white. Not only does being on the receiving end of this treatment piss me off me but its a bloody rip off when all your getting is the use of one of the worlds worse toilets and a flee infested bedroom which you have to lock yourself in to protect yourself from the equally flee infested prostitutes clawing at your door.
I'm not quite sure what you can do to rectify the situation but until you come up with some bright ideas and buck up your act I think your better off discouraging western tourist altogether. At least that way they are less likely to discover what they are wasting the $2 billion on each year and divert the funds to people who deserve and will be grateful for receiving it. If there one thing that I will take away from my Ethiopian experience it is that I shall try and ensure that when I give to charity my donations go to the millions of equally poor but incredibly welcoming folk elsewhere in the world.
Having endured far too many days of misery cycling through the hell hole that is Ethiopia I'm afraid I really can't recommend the experience to anyone.
I've traveled to nearly 50 countries and I can comprehensively say that none are as bad as yours
I do hope you have found this feedback beneficial.
Please do feel welcome to circulate it - I shall.
Yours faithfully
George Matts
PS - Not even sure if your advertising slogan of "13 months of Sunshine" is correct. It rained during both November and December when I was there and I saw bugger all in the way of sunshine.