Photo Story

The dominating profile of Gorilla Mountain.

Dr Harmon dresses the brave young man's wound.

John Gorman leads (from the rear) as all three cross the river.

Father John secures the cable saddle bolts.

Brenden and Sylvester attach the cable anchor turnbuckles.

The completed bridge. The river is very low at this narrow point, being only 2 feet deep. During the rains it will rise by 6 to 8 feet and become a raging torrent. The river plays host to much wildlife, including a large number of Nile crocodile. This bridge will have a huge impact on countless lives in this very marginalised Pokot community.

Father John blesses the bridge and all those who use it

Father John secures the cable saddle bolts.

Elaborately decorated Pokot ladies, of all ages, prepare to celebrate the completion of their new bridge.

The tribesman leads the group in dance and chant. His monkey tail is just visible on his left elbow.

The women take the lead in the final stages, then everybody joins in as they dance and advance towards the guests of honour..us!

The lead girl dancer invites Harmon to join in. All the girls enviously watch her as she leaps as high as the men whilst retaining perfect poise. The picture shows both dancers airborne, with the girl proudly emulating a bird in perfect flight.

John and me enjoy our goat, which tastes like lamb. It was expertly cooked and was very tasty indeed.

The idea is to hurl projectiles which only vaguely resemble equine footwear and each weighing about a kilo, 20 metres or so onto a metre high pole stuck in the ground. Points are awarded for ‘on the pole’, ‘against the pole’ or near it. With no other form of entertainment available the competition was extremely fierce, particularly as the winner’s prize was the last tin of beer. John Gorman’s first stumbling attempts were painfully embarrassing to watch, whilst Brenden and Father John seemed to get away with flying starts. Sylvester and the two Freddies had clearly played the game before. Harrell’s superior style was evident and I was just plain useless. Harmon Parker on the other hand took the game to Olympic standards with unsurpassed accuracy and panache; he wallowed in his own winning glory time after time, but every dog has it’s day as John Gorman would eventually prove.

Dawn broke to the familiar sounds of Sam and his glorious coffee pots. We swiftly demolished one pot after another whilst simultaneously breaking camp and finishing off the last few bits and bobs on the building. We departed for Marich Pass mid- morning backtracking our route and heading south. After only a couple of hours we arrived at the Marich Pass Field Studies Centre and began to set up camp. The centre takes its name from the nearby Marich Pass which is a deep, rocky cleft carved where the Moruny river emerges from the Cherangani Hills on to the dry plains of the Lake Turkhana Basin. The Marich Pass Centre is in a forest clearing along a river bank two kilometres downstream from the pass. Situated on the boundaries of distinctive ecological zones, there are wide varieties of physical landscapes, vegetation, wildlife and human lifestyles, all within easy reach. Baboons, vervet monkeys and Monitor lizards can be seen daily and there are occasional visits by elephant and antelope. The area is steeped in archaeological history, much of it still undiscovered. Pokot agriculturalists are situated in the mountains, whilst semi-nomadic pastoralists are to be seen in the arid plains giving an insight into several traditional ways of life. Our tents went up without incident and we soon collected plenty of wood for the evening’s fire. John Gorman had already set up ‘Horseshoes’ on some nearby ground; his clanking continued for at least a couple of hours. We enjoyed good fresh food that evening accompanied by some very refreshing cold beer. Early next day we departed for Akiriamet to build our bridge, but en-route we were to repair another bridge erected several years earlier. The bridge is situated at a site dominated by Mount Koh. From some angles this mountain resembles a Gorilla deep in thought, hence the local name Gorilla Mountain. Considering the bridge has been used over so many years the repairs that were needed were minimal.

Several boards had split and the bolts securing the handrails had come loose. Banana leaves hampered passage across the bridge, but within half an hour everything was sorted out. We even gave it a quick lick of oxide paint. We were watched by a few of the locals, one of whom was a man in his mid twenties with a nasty open wound in his thigh. The gash extended several inches and was almost to the bone. It happened whilst he was hunting and was caused by the tip of his spear, which was extremely sharp. The wound looked extremely painful so Harmon offered to help. Harmon began with cleaning the wound, first with hydrogen peroxide then iodine. This chap indelicately manipulated his wound to show its extent. The whole episode must have been unbearably painful for him, yet not once did he grimace or even bat an eye; here was one very tough cookie indeed. Once his wound was dressed he gave a great big smile of thanks before casually sauntering off into the bush once more. We loaded up the tools and set off for Arkiriamet. Plenty of locals were there ready to greet us when we arrived. This community had suffered many losses here mainly through ill-fated attempts to cross the river during the rainy season. More worryingly, many had lost life or limb to the many crocodiles which also eke out an existence in this remote spot. The river level was very low indeed, but the devilish inhabitants of this dull, chocolate coloured water were clearly visible only 20 yards or so upstream. As John Gorman, Brenden and Sylvester went for a peek at the crocs, Harmon and I discussed options. It didn’t take long to arrive at the only conclusion, someone would have to wade across to get a line on the other side. I had done many brave things on previous Albert ventures, so I decided to pass on this one.

I picked up the line and beckoned John Gorman. “ We need to get this line to the other side John” I began. He calmly studied my face as I continued “as you are the youngest, fittest and fastest runner it makes sense that it should be you”. He followed the track of my hand as I presented him with the end of the rope, and he took it. After a few more seconds staring at the frayed end of the red nylon rope he looked at me, head cocked and eyes squinting against the bright sun. “ How deep is it?” he asked nervously. A burst of laughter came from Sylvester “ I will come with you John, we will fight the crocodiles and die together!” John smiled politely and headed for the water’s edge. Brenden also volunteered to go and so all three clambered down the bank and got in

As they cautiously sloshed through the knee deep water their heads snapped left and right looking for even the slightest indication of movement. From the sanctuary of the riverbank some person threw stones into the water behind them...just to see what they’d do. I’ve never quite understood that wicked human trait that delights in the fearful reaction of others. To see 3 men dancing as if stepping on hot coals, each emitting high pitched girlish squeals of fear was a priceless moment. I never knew that so many expletives could be strung together at once. The line reached the other side without further incident. Soon after, cables were quickly being hauled across from one side to the other. Once the ‘stringing’ process started other work quickly emerged and soon everybody was engaged in productive activity. Harmon’s bridge design is actually a suspended rather than a suspension footbridge. The wooden walkway planking is secured to a series of hangers, each of which is suspended from the cables, then secured by clamps. Each hanger is equidistant from its neighbour and as each treated wooden board is bolted down so the bridge starts to extend across the river. By the end of the day the river was bridged. The safety wiring had yet to be done and the steps had to be assembled and fitted, but a long and satisfactory day’s work was completed so we headed back to camp for the evening. On our arrival back at camp there was the rush for showers, which although not hot were very invigorating. John Gorman’s absence made him conspicuous, then we heard the clank of horseshoes in the distance. At every opportunity he played and practised like a prize fighter training for a shot at the title. The rest of us set off for supper and beer, John joined us later. To a chorus of ‘ooos’ he laid the gauntlet before Harmon like a gentleman, and it was accepted; the Horseshoe Challenge would take place the following evening, my money was firmly on Parker.

We arrived at the bridge site early the next day and set about finishing off. The handrails were bolted on, the safety wiring was tensioned and paintwork was touched up. Throughout our work we could here chanting and singing as the local Pokots prepared for the celebration. I had a rough idea of the format and wondered, briefly, how the Monsignor would react to eating freshly slaughtered goat. We had finished everything slightly after midday, and our bridge looked great.

As we tidied up the site and ourselves spirits were high and we each enjoyed a fantastic sense of achievement. An hour or so later we were ushered to makeshift seats in a nearby clearing. The afternoon sun was high and hot, but we were afforded some shade from the towering acacias surrounding us. As soon as we were seated the ladies were the first to assemble before us. They began to chant rhythmically, each chant preceded by a solo chant. They danced and chanted, feet thumping the ground in complicated syncopation. Every dancer was perfectly synchronised and the makeshift bells around their ankles rattled in hypnotic sequence. Just as each dance seemed to subside so another part would develop, each more elaborate than its predecessor. As the men took over, the chanting dropped an octave or two. They carried on with the dance making variations on the theme. In rhythm they would leap high in the air again and again in perfect sequence, hurling their rigid bodies skyward. The leader had what appeared to be a 2 foot long black pelt attached to his left elbow which he flailed around. I was told it was a monkey’s tail and I never discovered its significance. He would swish this thing about and as the men dancers hit the ground they would grunt together in unison, which had a powerful musical effect within its context. The dancing and singing continued for almost an hour; primordial, potent and completely mesmerising.

With the dancing celebrations over it was time for the speeches of gratitude. One by one the elders of the community uttered words of overwhelming gratitude for the miracle gift of a bridge that would change their lives immeasurably. The regional holyman lead the tribe in prayer; almost like a responsorial psalm it was delivered with great conviction. Harmon said a few words followed by Sam, then me. I introduced the Project Albert team by name, lingering on Father John and his position within the Catholic Church as both Monsignor and RAF Principal Chaplain. The gathering acknowledged his presence with a degree of awe. I then invited Father John to bless the bridge, which he did most eloquently. The blessing was the final, very moving act that Project Albert would perform for 2006. Now it was time to eat!

As we filtered away from the clearing we were lead to a more sheltered spot in the bushes. An occasional waft of something tasty could be caught on the gentle breeze and as we neared our dining area so the irresistible aroma intensified. To have a goat slaughtered and cooked for you by the Pokots is a huge honour. The meat was lain before us non leaves and although a million flies had been alerted, the Pokots even had the fly police at hand, constantly waving branches over the feast to keep them away. Father John was the first to be offered food, and I wondered how he would react. My apprehension was unwarranted as he firmly grasped a leg and munched away. Each of us in turn took sizeable portions of the meat and ate. Father John turned to me, a sliver of grease escaping from the side of his lips, “Mmmn...this is very good, only thing missing is a glass of full bodied red”. When we had eaten our fill the locals finished off what was left. We casually loitered for an hour or so as the last few bits and bobs were loaded on to the vehicle and we made our farewells to the different chracters that we had met. Very satisfied with the bridge and everything else we had done we travelled back to Marich for our last night under canvas. Showers came first, then beer. We settled down late afternoon to talk about what we had achieved, until John Gorman beckoned to Harmon with an outstretched index finger. The challenge was to take place now.

With unparalleled skill Harmon threw the first horseshoe, which tumbled through the air and wrapped itself around the stake with a resounding clank. I smiled wryly as John took up position. He casually hung his second shoe on the throwing stake like a true professional and lofted his shoe high. The heavy metal travelled with its open end flying directly at the post. The trajectory was perfect, the object flew with alarming precision to land squarely on the post. Surely that must have been a fluke, but fluke followed fluke until Gorman convincingly took the crown from Parker. Harmon lost with dignity, but I felt sure that defeat hurt him more than he let on. As night gathered around us and our fire, we reflected on what we had achieved. We laughed together, told jokes and stories, and when a bottle of Scotch appeared from somewhere the evening was a perfect ending to our trip.