Motorcycles, Mountains, and the Most-High

Several months after arriving in Tanzania we were joined in Babati by a young New Zealander named Matt. Matt worked for an organization called, “So They Can,” providing educational resources and helping to begin a teachers training college. He took up residence in one of the local guesthouses and from time to time would join me in town for lunch.

Matt was an experienced motocross rider, and having lived in Kenya prior to his arrival in Tanzania, had developed a penchant for the long dirt tracks East Africa so easily affords. As such, he purchased a large 650 cc enduro-bike and spent many weekends riding through the bush. I had owned a motorcycle in the states and was interested in riding in Tanzania as well, so Matt’s interest and arrival helped me to expedite my search for a bike of my own.

I mentioned earlier the difficulty in finding a regular bicycle to purchase in Tanzania. This pales in comparison to searching for an actual motorbike, as cheap Chinese motorcycles, brands with the off name of Toyo, Star, and Skygo, dominate the market in Tanzanian. So while it’s possible to get one of these bikes new and at a reasonable price, they are quite flimsy, break easily, and don’t handle the roads of East Africa with any kind of aplomb.

Thus, I found myself searching for a used and reasonably priced Japanese model, a leftover from the days in which Japan enjoyed reasonable sales in the country. While these bikes are often more expensive, they run for years and spare parts are still readily available.

One particular afternoon I found myself in Arusha. I was bringing one of our sponsored kids to a special school in the nearby town of Usa River. This particular child, Donald, had a severe learning disability and was mentally handicapped. Thankfully we had located this school, were able to get him an interview, and he was accepted. Here he would learn a specific skill that he could later use as employment in his post school career. He selected carpentry. The day we dropped him off for life at the boarding school was a bittersweet one for his mother. I stood by her side as she helped him settle his few belongings in his new dormitory and during the subsequent tour of the classrooms. She cried as we drove away, a mixture of sadness at his departure and relief at his new opportunity. She was soothed by the image of Donald standing alongside his new friends and dorm mates as we pulled out of the gravel parking area.

Having left Donald at the school and dropped off his mother in town to do some shopping I bounced around town looking for a motorcycle. I could find nothing. I did find several Honda’s, but they started at around $3,000 U.S. and if you wanted one that actually ran, the price jumped to $5,000 U.S. I left Arusha discouraged. If I couldn’t find a decent bike in a major city, there wasn’t much hope.

As we drove back towards Babati I decided that perhaps I should give it one more shot. I knew at the other end of town was a small shop that occasionally sold bikes. I had never actually seen a decent one for sale, but I was desperate enough to continue looking.

At this point, in the interest of transparency, you should know that I don’t really believe God cares about helping us attain material possessions. I’m not saying specifically that he doesn’t like them (to a point), but rather that he doesn’t actively intervene in the whole process of us acquiring them. It’s not a priority so to speak. I can think of nowhere in the Bible where you find God admonishing us to buy a bunch of stuff. Regardless, I’ll admit, I had prayed several weeks ago that he might help me find a reasonably priced motorcycle. Even if I didn’t believe God cares about helping me find one, it certainly couldn’t hurt to ask. And technically I wasn’t asking him to just flat out give me a bike, only that he deeply discount one when it eventually became available.

When I drove up to the small shop back in Babati, I glanced out the window at the available bikes. I looked at each motorcycle in line, admittedly with a strong sense of disgust and disappointment. They were awful, each bike more broken and discarded than the last. After looking at the 6 bikes in the row my eyes fell upon the final one, a bit smaller than the rest and hidden behind the group. It was actually clean, no lights dangling from their wires, no fuel leaking out of the carburetor and pooling on the ground. This red and black-striped beauty practically glistened in the African sun. I walked around to the other side and pulled the bike until it was standing vertically. I sat down and ran my hands over the console and handlebars, bouncing on the shocks as I pushed the bike up and down. And then, when I downshifted into neutral and coasted the bike forward away from the line, I noticed it. It was under my right thigh, plastered to the tank of the bike in big bold letters, a single word: “SCOTT.”

Again, it must be said, I don’t think God’s priorities have anything to do with us getting stuff. But it’s hard to argue with asking for help finding a motorcycle, and than finding one with your name already written on it. I talked to the dealer and the price was perfect. I purchased it that day.

A week later Matt and I were scheduled for our first ride into the bush. The rainy season was coming to an end and the roads were returning to soft brown dirt. We planned a route north out of Babati, up the escarpment that makes up the Great Rift Valley towards the town of Mbulu.

The U.S. bike we sold when moving to Africa.

I mentioned previously that I had owned a bike in the states; so riding was not new to me. What I failed to state however, was that off road riding was. And while I was relatively confident I could get by without killing myself, I was ill prepared for the pace Matt would set. Not only had he been riding in Africa for years, I found out later he wasn’t riding so much as racing. He had been a member of an international team of endurocross riders.

We flew out of Babati at speeds of over 100 kilometers an hour; relatively tame tempos for tarmac but dangerously fast for loose dirt roads. I was able to keep up, in large part because he’d often slow down and outright stop in places where he could no longer see me behind the cloud of dust he was leaving in his wake.

 We rode for 30 minutes before arriving at the edge of a river. Along the bank almost 25 Tanzanians sat talking and laughing under the trees that lined the edge. The water looked deep and perhaps we had underestimated what we thought was the end of the rainy season. I yelled to a small group of teenagers, “Do you think we can make it across?”

They laughed in reply and answered in Swahili, “Absolutely, it’s not deep at all, go for it Mzungu.”

Matt looked at me and asked if I thought they were serious. “No I don’t think so,” I replied, “I think they want to see us swim.”

This information did not deter him however, and after a brief discussion he decided to attempt the river crossing. He turned his bike around and drove in the opposite direction of the river, stopping after 100 yards and turning around again. And the, he floored it. His bike lurched forward and launched its way down the dirt path, dust flying behind him as small pieces of rock and gravel shot up from his back tire. He hit the peak of the embankment without stopping and descending into the water while flinging back the throttle. The river parted as his front tire made contact and the bike heaved itself into the center of the water. Unfortunately the water around him continued to rise and as he neared the half way point of the river the bike ignored the twisting of the throttle, the water seeped over his seat, and the engine died.

The group of young men from the bank rushed out into the river to help him push his motorcycle the rest of the way across. I can only assume they did this out guilt, feeling now that they had betrayed Matt and personally sent him to his watery grave.

At this point, we were faced with a problem. Although he had done it unconventionally, Matt had still made it to the other side of the river, now resting on the ground some 50 yards away from me.

He yelled back from the other side, “I think you can make it, I just wasn’t going fast enough.”

I’m not sure if that was meant as a cruel joke or some vile bit of psychology engineered to allow him the opportunity to watch me suffer as well. I yelled back that it wasn’t happening and began considering my options. From the bank I watched as the 4 boys who had initially entreated us to cross and then subsequently assisted Matt to do so returned to my side of the river. They approached me with a proposition.

“You know there is another way to get your bike across. We could carry it.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what they meant but it sounded better than anything I could consider, so I agreed.

From the nearby trees they brought out 2 long logs. They placed one in the spokes of the front tire and another in the spokes of the rear before lifting the bike up “Cleopatra” style. They rested the logs on their shoulders and again waded out and across the river. The bike was safety dropped off on the other side, having navigated the waters like an Egyptian princess. The boys again returned to my side.

They approached me, this time stopping short and clasping their hands together in the region of my groin. It took me a minute to realize what they were doing, but I was a bit clearer on the plan when one of them spoke up, ”your turn Mzungu.” They were offering to carry me. Although it should be said I was not offered the same lofty perch they afforded my motorcycle. I laughed, paid them a few thousand shillings for carrying the bike, and told them I’d be fine. I took off my boots and socks, rolled up my pants, and waded across the river. The water reached waste high at points.

After donning the rest of my footwear again and pouring the water out of Matt’s saddlebags, we were able to start the motorcycles again and continue the ride. We continued another 20 minutes before reaching the base of the mountain range.

From our spot at the foot of the first major uprising, we could see the road twisting and snaking its way up the mountainside. The path had changed dramatically in the last several kilometers as loose sand and dirt gave way to sharp jagged rocks and deep-gutted groves where the rain had washed through and indented the road.

We began the ascent with Matt leading, his speed leaving him often three or four sharp turns ahead of me and out of sight. The path was about 8 feet wide to begin with, but narrowed to only 3 feet in places where the rain had washed out the accompanying hillside to the left of us. To the right was a sheer drop to the trees and bushes below; gradually becoming more and more dangerous the higher we climbed. As I neared the midpoint of the ascent my front tire sunk into one of the deep ruts. It was as if I was on an amusement ride, shackled to some predetermined path up the mountain, as the groove was too deep to steer out of. My only recourse was to simply keep accelerating forward.

Unfortunately the groove ended sharply and abruptly and the bike sprung forward over the lip as I came to its end. In my inexperience I panicked and jerked the motorcycle as it lurched, pushing the tire to the right and directly in a line towards the edge of the cliff. In a moment I felt time stop. I let go of the handlebars and let the bike slide out from under me as I crashed to the ground. I watched as the bike spun forward for an instant before toppling over along the edge of the road. I stood up and walked over to where it lay. The motorcycle’s front tire jutted out over the cliff, the front wheel still spinning as it dangled in the open air. I peered over the side at the trees and bushes some 100 feet below. Another couple of feet and I would have probably been dead.

I picked up the bike and leaned it against the opposite hillside as I caught my breath. By this point Matt, having found me missing, had returned back down the mountain. I didn’t explain to him what happened, only that I had briefly and carelessly fallen a bit.

We were able to start the bike again after some effort and continue the ride, retracing our way back down the mountain and home again. I began to understand why God had helped me find this motorcycle, he was trying to kill me. Later, when asked by my wife about the ride, I failed to divulge the accident, or this new and troubling realization about God.

I’m being a bit facetious. In reality I don’t really believe God was trying to shove me off the side of the mountain. More likely he was the hand holding me back from plummeting off the side. In fact, you could say that about the entirety of our stay here in East Africa. Through the valleys and over the mountains it’s been a trek we could never have dreamed of. And although it won’t last forever, it’s been an incredible ride. Especially knowing the unseen hand of the Most High keeps guiding our steps along the journey.