LETTERS

We all have a bad day now and again. Mike’s Landrover was having a bad week. It had started a few days before in Casablanca. In the lead, heading for the airport, I noticed Mike stopping behind me. As I could see him getting out I decided that I better go back. The engine of the green one had just died and now refused to start. We elected to tow the stranded vehicle to the campsite in Casablance to allow us to address the problem at our liesure. The plan was fair, but taking a wrong turning, resulted in a 30 kilometre detour, terminated when we hit a police checkpoint. The officer in charge decided to do a spot check on the state on my vehicle. Everything was going fine until he strolled round the back and spotted the tow rope trailing back to Mike’s. "Non, non, c’est prohibite". Oops. It was difficult to argue with five metres of evidence sticking out from behind, so we copped the fine. But he was a fair and allowed us to continue in tandem. And if we met another checkpoint? He shrugged his shoulders. That was our problem, not his.

On the following day, the green one fired up fine and ran flawlessly on our 1000 kilometre to Marrakech and back. We were now back in Rabat, capital of Morroco, to obtain Maurintanian visas as we had heard in Marrakech, that the land border to Mauritania was open. Our escape route.

In the campsite at Marrakech we met other travellers and formed the core of our convoy to Dakhla, and (hopefully) onwards to West Africa - these were Freddie, the courier from a Bukima truck (we had met the truck in Marrakech and brought Freddie back to Rabat to process the paperwork), Rob and Simon in a V8 110 Landrover, and Steve and Adrian in a converted Landrover ambulance.

Applications had been submitted the day before and as we had the time we collected other visas which might be useful. Central African Rebublic visas were cheap in Rabat, so we all got those. They gave an end destination to encourage West African counsels that we were really in transit. Paul also discovered the Mali embassy, only recently established and not mentioned in the guide books. This was a major score, as it permitted onwards travel from Mauritania. The route was starting to look viable.

All of which was upsetting the green one. On the first day back in Rabat, it had refused to start, so Mike decided to dismantle the distributer pump. This is a task not detailed in the repair manuals, which merely have a note stating that any repairs must be performed by a specialist. The next day, with the vehicle still immobile, we called in the specialists. They rebuild the pump and got the green one running again.

This attention must have had an effect. Overnight we were disturbed on a number of occasions when the alarm of the green one pierced the night. Eventually it was switched off, but the next morning we were unable to work out what had set it off. Later in the day, Paul was sitting in it, acting as gaurd while the rest of us had a pleasant chat with the C.A.R. officials, and received visa stamps in our passports. Paul’s daydreams were disturbed when the starter motor engaged and the green one lurched forward. Held by the handbreak it stopped with the engine dead. We found Paul standing beside it, reluctant to get back into it by himself. Elated in getting our visas with very little pain, we dismissed Pauls description of events, suspecting he had fallen asleep.

Returning to the campsite at Rabat, we found a couple of Germans camped next to us in our usual parking spot. Mike parked in front of them and I reversed mine between the tents out of the way. After a quick greeting, we settled down to our brew, nodding amiably at the Germans, who were also brewing up. We were sitting there watching the sunset and listening to the peaceful hiss of the petrol stove when there was the sound of a starter motor engaging, the green one lurched forward straight at the Germans, and the car alarm siren shrieked. The Germans bolted and when they returned found us in happy and animated discussion. It all made sense, the alarms during the night, Paul’s experience. The Germans probably thought they were the victims of some complicated and heartless practical joke and without a further word to us dismantled their tent and moved to the furthest corner of the campsite.

The next day we traced the problem to a loose bare wire which was shorting to the chassis. In the process, I also noticed that there was a short between the engine block and one of the metal brake pipes. I mentioned it to Mike in passing, as it indicated that there was a bad earth, which should be checked. At the time Mike was busy sorting the real problem, and neither he nor I thought any more about it.

Once everything was sorted, we fueled up and raided the supermarket. Full of provisions and complete with visas, we once again headed south.

We cruised again over the barren plains on the way to Marrakech. I presume it was the season, late October, that left the fields bare, but it made for bleak uninteresting scenery to drive through. To keep interest up I had Moroccon driving to deal with. The road was barely wide enough for two trucks, but the locals would scream past heading for the oncoming traffic and brake into the gap in front at the last moment. They always made it, and they always gave me a fright doing it.

Fortunatley, by the time we were arriving in Marrakech, the roads were getting quiet, for once again the green one died in a cloud of blue diesel smoke, and Mike coasted to a halt on the roadside. As the distributer pump was no longer the suspect, we looked around for other problems. Returning to one of our original thoughts we isolated each of the injectors in turn until we found that number 3 cyclinder was running rough. Replacing it with the spare injector had the green one running smoothly again. After all the trauma, it was a faulty injector causing the problems.

As we had seen Marrakech on our previous visit, and were keen to get on with the journey proper, we only overnighted and left early the next morning. Our destination was Dahkla, in Western Sahara, perched on the Tropic of Cancer it was as far south as we could get under Morrocan jurisdiction amd was, we had been told, where we must apply for permission to travel on into Mauritania. Dahkla is 1500 km south of Marrakech and travelling at a top speed of 80 kph, it would take us at least three days to get there. Just to apply for permission, which might be turned down.

At least the roads were quieter, less frightening and we had a chance to look at the scenery, though it was still very bleak. We were making good time and were planning a lunch stop in Aqadir when a cloud of blue smoke erupted from the back of the green one. I felt sick. "Same again?". "Afraid so".

Although running very rough we managed to coax the green one to a truck halt about 500 meters up the road. Here we handed it over to the local mechanics for them to have a look. With the conversation proceeding in broken French I left Mike to the negotiations and retired to check over my own truck. Returning about half an hour later, I found the mechanics had removed the radiator. "What are they doing?" "They thing it might be a sticking valve - so they are taking the cylinder head off" "But you don’t need to take the radiator out to get the cyclinder head off." "Ah".

Returning in another half hour, I found they engine completely stripped to the cylinder block. Fan, water pump, radiator, every ancillary was lying neatly by the vehicle. At least they are quick I thought.

Questioning the mechanic he explained the problem. "These parts are bad and need to be repaired" He pointed at the distributer pump and the injectors, wrapped in oily rags and carried by his assistant. There didn’t seem any point in remarking that these parts could have been removed without dismantling any of the engine. This was our first encounter with African mechanics.

As the parts are precision engineering, it was not going to be possible to get them repaired locally, so Mike, the mechanic and myself set off for Aqadir, where the mechanic knew a specialist shop. Arriving, he directed us around the backstreets until we arrived at a rough building set in a patch of sand. I was doubtful, but walking through the door met an immacullate engineering workshop. The proprieter came over to us and took the parts away, returning shortly to pronounce, "They all need to be refurbished. You have water in your fuel and this has damaged them."

He was right. We later drained 50cc of water from Mike’s main tank. My tank was clear, the water had probably been in Mike’s tank since he bought it. The distributer pump had originally been overhauled in England because it had had water through it. Shame nobody though of checking where the water had come from. On the recommendation of the engineering shop, we stocked up on fuel filters. Check daily and change them every couple of weeks was the advice, but in 44,000 km of travelling I never suffered from any water contamination.

With the green one rebuild and running smoothly we got away a couple of hours later, just as the sun was setting and made camp soon after.

The next two days were monotonous days of driving through increasingly barren and arid land. On the second day we met our first ‘Camel Crossing’ sign and a few kilometres later spotted camels off the road. By following the coast road we were skirting the Sahara, avoiding the Grand Erg Occidental, the Hogar and the Tanzerouft, about which I had spent so many hours reading. By the time we arrived in Layoune we were further south than the Grand Erg Occidental, we had seen one small group of camels and a couple of small sickle dunes. And the road was still perfect tarmac, we could have driven the distance in any modern saloon car in much more comfort and much faster.

As the roads were easy, I decided to give Ann Claude a chance to get familiar with the Landrover, coaching her on the use of the gears. This lesson was going fine until I noticed a police checkpoint up ahead. Knowing the stopping distance of the Landrover I suggested Ann Claude should start slowing down. The police looked rather bemused as we sailed past them with Ann Claude vainly stamping on the brake. Reversing back up to them, most of the group managed to see the funny side of things.

Continuing south, we met up with the Bukima truck making its slow way southwards. In moments of high drama, fully laden Series III Landrovers powered past the grinding MAN truck only to be passed in turn by the V8 110 of Rob and Simon. The convoy had formed, with the V8 acting as escort destroyer.

At camp that evening, it was decided to send the V8 on ahead to scout out Dahkla and set in motion our application for transit permission

At Layoune, we entered Western Sahara, formally Spanish Sahara. One of the forgotten wars, Morroco and Mauritania had annexed Western Sahara when Spain had left. Mauritania was forced to withdraw by the Polisario who had waged a guerilla war against the iron ore shipments from F’derik. The Morrocans had resisted and in 1992, the UN had arrived to oversee a referendum on the future of Western Sahara. The referendum never took place and in the meantime, Moroccans were encouraged to move into the area so diluting the idigenous population.

Filling the main tank at Laayoune, I found the price of diesel had halfed. It made the place more attractive to me and I proceeded to fill both reserve tanks and the four jerry cans on the roof. Having entered occupied territory, we found more regular checkpoints which were now manned by miltary. At the first of these we had a frustrating wait as the constable on duty laboriously copied out the details from the printed sheet we had given him. At this stage we still took their questions seriously and answered the questions about occupation and mother’s maiden name with accuracy. At later checkpoints we answered what we could remember and made up the rest.

Finally, we came to a road junction. To the left it indicated was the road to Nouadhibou, Nouakchott and Dakar. It even gave the distances. It was blocked by a barrier and gaurded by strong military presence. We stopped, checked in with them and were directed straight on "Dakhla 40 Km" said the sign. The tarmac ran straight and true into a beurocratic knot at Dakhla.

We arrived to find the V8 waiting for us. They had little news, we each had to apply for transit individually. A convoy had transitted about six weeks before but nothing had happened since. Some people had been waiting the full time. They had managed to find a sheletered cove which took us out of the endless wind.

Dakhla sits at the end of a sandy penisular, it must be very easy to defend, and had been chosen as the Moroccan southern headquarters. But the pensisular is bleak, and in our expereince, wind swept. We waited for two weeks for permission and the wind blew continuously. But it did not drive sand before it, all the sand had been blown of the Dakhla peninsular many years before, it just blew.

We camped in the cove. Took possesion of it. Daily we sent out scouting parties to find out what was happening. Daily they came back with no news, but a promise that we should hear tomorrow. We counted the days we had been there by events. The day that we had visited the UN encampment, the day when Adrian returned drunk and attempted to relight the smouldering fire from a full jerry can of petrol, the day we found the Turkish steam baths, the day we drank the town dry. We settled into a siege mentality and let the days sweep over us.

On day ten, I got concerned about my engine as there was a new noise. This was traced to the water pump. If a convoy did form, I did not want to breakdown. Would they wait for me? So I stripped the front of the Landrover to get the waterpump off. It was an easy job as the waterpump was almost new. I had replaced it about six months previously. I was a little annoyed about replacing it so soon, but I was fairly sure what had happened. As part of the final preparations I had sent my Landrover to a reputable agent to have the timing belt replaced a task which requires the water pump to be removed. I collected it and drove it to Scotland the next day. In Scotland I discovered the fan belt in shreds with the remaining strands guitar string tight. The belt had been overtightened and the strain had damaged the water pump bearing.

As I worked on the replacement, Rob and Greg, came over for a chat. I was a bit distracted by the work and they soon wandered off. I noticed them chatting between themselves, then Rob came back over. He looked over the work then in an off hand way asked, "Do you know your cylinder block is cracked?", "WHAT?". He pointed to a thin line, discoloured with anti-freeze. Wiping it his finger came away wet. My engine was seeping coolant, on the edge of the Sahara.

"How long’s it been like that?". I thought back. I had noticed it in Scotland but dismissed it as spillage, it was directly beneath the overflow tank. "Ah well, it probably won’t get any worse, and if it does it will be easy to weld." "In the middle of the Sahara?", "Mmm".

I picked up a tyre lever and disappeared down the track. Mutilating some desert melons made me feel better and when I returned Rob and Greg were still round the Landie. "Well, what do you advise?", "Its your decission, but if its been like that for 7,000 kilometres, then its not likely to get worse." "OK, but what caused it?" "Don’t know, its not a stressed area, and the casting looks OK." I looked at the crack and picked up the tyre lever. With the radiator out of the way, to tighten the fan belt you could put a lever in at this angle against the alternator, and its end would rest against the cylinder block just where the crack was. "Shit."

I decided to run with it, and just hoped the work with the timing belt had been of higher quality.

By the next day, day eleven, hopes had started to die. The Bukima truck knew that there was a cargo ship sailing from Casablanca on the 9th Dec. They had a provisional booking on it, but to make the journey back to Casa in time for formalities, they would have to leave soon. We could wait a few more days, but were in a similar predicament and if we went for shipping, then there was a huge air-fare on top. For me the logistics did not make sense. The cost of shipping two vehicles for five people was prohibative. The real reason for the two vehicles was as back-up through the desert and by shipping we would avoid the Sahara totally. I made my decision. If we turn round, I return to London.

That evening just as the sun set, the Medics (Adrian and Steve in their ambulance) arrived in a cloud of dust. Adrian rolling out the passenger door even before the vehicle had stopped. "We’ve got permission!", he blurted. The camp erupted. People flocked to hear the news, having heard part of it, drivers sprinted for their vehicles, to get into town and confirm it was not just another rumour.

Within an hour, the group was once again, sitting round the campfire. It had been confirmed at the Province, that permission had been received. It was a list of people, it consisted of twenty from our group of twenty-nine. It did not include any of the others, who had been there before us.

There seemed no logic in the list. The six Australians on the Bukima truck had been excluded, as had Paul who was also Australian, and yet Alan had been included. Then Simon and Mike, both English had been exlcuded. This all made the logistics very difficult. Bukima had to organise how to fly their six passengers over to meet them in Mauritania. For us we had firstly to agree that Alan could drive Mike’s vehicle through and then arrange to meet in Mauritania. It was not easy for Mike, he was looking forward to the desert driving. But it was the only real option, and so with our plan agreed, we settled down to a rather nervous night.

On the following morning we decamped as a group and moved into town. Here we discovered that the other group had spent a very disruptive night and that everyone was to report to the Province at 09:30. It was like being told at assembly that you must report to the Headmaster’s office. From the back of our group there was dark muttering about what would happen if the convoy was cancelled due to the behaviour of the other group. Duly, at 09:30, the official appeared. He looked tired and his manner was perfunctory. We stood in a circle around him as he annonced that permission had been granted to the following people and then commenced to read out the names of evrybody, in both groups. He then told us the convoy would leave the next day and we must complete formalities before then. He left us, receiving no thanks.

The rest of the day was spent being directed round Dakhla, to various official buildings. At each, the officials had to check against the list of approved people before stamping our passports. Eventually, by 17:30, we believed we had done it. Ours passports had a Morroco exit stamp and the carnet for the Landrovers also showed they had been officially exported from Morroco. It was while examining the exit stamp, that one of the other group came over and said, "Why do you still have your passport? It should be handed over to the military who are going to escort us."

After another frenzied drive round the dusty streets, we found the correct military post, and spent another two hours as our passport details were laboriously copied out into a ledger. Finally, we were told to return at 07:00 the next morning when the convoy would depart. It was only then that I allowed myself to believe that we were going to Mauritania.

Up to the top.

Ice Cold in Bamako.

The following day, 29 vehicles of assorted shapes and sizes rolled out of Dakhla. Forty kilometres up the road we again arrived at the sign indicating the road to Dakar, and with a military truck in the lead, we turned right and followed it. We drove all day behind that truck, only occasionally stopping for a rest or to negotiate a bar of sand that crossed the road. The tarmac was still pristine.

In the late afternnon, we arrive at a final checkpoint and are told to set up camp. At 08:00 the following morning, the escort sets off down the road. Not knowing what is happening, there is a chaotic rush to follow it. We find it about 1 kilometre down the road, dispensing passports to the travellers. I grab the passports for the five of us and set off in pusuit of the saloons.

After 100 metres, the tarmac stops. It doesn’t deteriote into a potholed track, it just stops. In front is sand, cut with the tracks of other vehicles. I change down through the gears and drive on. And stop immediatley. I’m confused. I try first gear but make no progress. The V8 has stopped behind me and Simon runs up breathless. "1st gear low ratio, then rev it as hard as possible. Keep the revs up." I nod at him and follow the instructions. The Landrover grinds forward with the engine screaming. I try to change up to 2nd, but as soon as I drop the clutch the Landie stops dead. I stick with first low and grind forward, trying to pick the best track.

I catch up with the saloons after half a kilometre. They are strewn around the track. Their speed has carried them this far, but now they are stuck. Once one stopped, the others went off track to avoid them and hitting softer sand also got stuck. It is like a motorway pile-up, but without casualities. Pondering on my options I grind towards them. The V8 sweeps past me and Simon waves for me to follow. I do and smile mirthlessly as the drivers of the saloons wave for me to stop and tow them. A kilometre later, we are alone and stuck. Well the Landies are stuck. But we have the sandladders and shovels out and with 29 people to help we are leapfrogging the sand patches. It is team work. All the passengers are out, stationed at the next patch of soft sand. The first Landie tackles it and hopefully, groaning and swaying, powers through. If it slows the helpers are there to push, and if it stops the sandladders are placed to help it on its way. On the hard patches between, the helpers ride hanging on to the vehicles or tramp along behind. We are not moving fast. Through it all the MAN truck plugs away. Greg has it down in low low and with the engine hardly above tick-over it inches forward. But it never pauses. By the time the four Landies have cleared a section, Greg has caught us and ploughs through the soft sand.

We are making 5kph and beginning to wonder how long we will be in the sand, when suddenly there is a shout from ahead, "Tarmac!". We re-group on the road and look back, a tattered sign points over the sand and merely states "Morocco". We are in no-mans land and drive down the road cautiosly. Approaching an area of sand, we spot someone coming across the dunes towards us. He is dressed as a soldier and carries a rifle. Fearing a Polisario ambush, we scan the dunes for signs of others, but see no-one. Waved to a stop, the soldier tell us to wait and strides off. A few minutes later, a group appears. It is led by an individual in a bright red track-suit. Not really desert camoflague. We have arrived at the Mauritania border and the official wants to welcome us. It takes two hours to be processed at this post. As each vehicle is completed they are waved forward to cross the border. This is marked by a wall of sand. It doesn’t look much, perhaps ten feet high. But it is soft sand and steep. The V8 manages to clear it with sheer power, the MAN truck by grinding over it and the Series III by a helpful shove from the passengers.

Once we are over the border, red tracksuit explains we must report to Nouadhibou to complete formalities. He then explains in great detail, and graphically, the route ahead. He is speaking French, but what he says is clear. He repeats it and then insists he talks to Ann Claude. AC listens and then transaltes. It is as we have understood, "Follow the road for 3, maybe four kilometres. You will see a track leave to the left, follow it. It will take you to the railway and from there to Nouadhibou. Do not follow the road after 4 kilometres, it is mined. Do not leave the track even by 5 metres, there are mines." Each time he mentioned mines he emphasised by sound effects and gestures. We got the message.

Sure enough, after 3.5 km, we spot the track off to the left and follow it for 2 kilometres. It then splits and we look in dispair at the two options. One appears to head off back to the border and we suspect leads to other border watch stations, so we follow the second. After about ten kilometres, we find we are back on the tarmac. We push on. Simon and Rob are in the lead. Simon sits on the roof as spotter and Rob drives along the tracks that we are following. Behind comes Mike, the ambulance, myself and the truck. The MAN has a different wheelbase and of necessity is making at least one track wider. The V8 also has a slightly wider track to the Series IIIs. I reckon by following exactly in the track of the two Series IIIs in front of me, at a reasonable distance, I should be safe.

We have made about 5 kilometres along the road when the convoy stops. Simon has spotted something and by vigorously banging on the roof got Rob to stop. We cautiously walk up to where they are. Simon is approaching the object, bends down and picks it up. "Coke can".

A further half hour and we sight the railway. Or at least, the train. It is massive, 3km long, and takes an age to pass out of sight. Knowing we are getting close, hopes rise and soon we crest a dune and see the tracks before us. Rob feels the urge to kiss the steel and the rest of us cannot contain the relief. We are through the minefield.

We roll into Nouadhibou the next day. It is no metropolis, but was a distinct improvement on Dakhla. We spent most of the day at the Surete attempting to get 29 passports processed. We support this activity in shifts, allowing the rest to sort out other business. My task for the day is to locate some copper washers as the connection to the fuel pump is leaking and won’t seal. The washers have hardened. I wander round the market area attempting to explain my problem, but what is copper washer in French? Anticipating the problem, I have brought the old washers and am directed from shop to shop until I find the copper washer shop. The proprietor lifts down a large box, compartmentalised and full of copper washers. I select what I need and add a few extra. No spares kit mentioned copper washers. Heading back to the car I am satisfied. I’m in black Africa, the car is running well and things are good.

Back at the Surete we have been processed and head to the customs office at the dock to get the carnet stamped. We then head out of town to camp. The convoy is separating at this point. The MAN truck is not equipped to follow the coast piste to Nouakchott. They did not have any suitable sand ladders and 450 km over soft sand did not appeal to Greg. So the MAN truck and its Bukima passengers are headed for Choum on the next empty ore train, from there they will follow the road to Atar and hence to Nouakchott. The medics left us volantarily in mid-afternoon, they wanted to press on without customs clearance, we didn’t.

So it was that the next day three Landrovers moved out of Nouadhibou giving a salute to the MAN truck as we passed it at the railway sidings. On the way out to the first checkpoint, we passed the saloons heading in, they had made it. From here they could follow the same option as Bukima and so get back onto made roads. We got to the checkpoint and effectively checked out, the guard telling us we should have a guide. We shrugged. Could it be that difficult to navigate?

The first 50km of this section followed the line of the railway and was the most difficult. The track is used by heavy lorries and they have cut the sand into deep ruts. We spent many hours digging shoving and pulling to get through and started to worry that we were undertaking more than we were capable of. 4 hours to make 50 kilometres, another 400 to go represented 3 days driving. And the driving was stressful both to the vehicles and to the drivers, no more so than when after a bid of digging I got into the cab and found I had no gears. Try all gears in the box, let the clutch out and nothing except the rattle of the engine. There was a sinking feeling in my stomach as I watched the other two vehicles continuing on their way. Then I noticed the low range lever in neutral, and the offending shovel which had knocked it out of gear.

By the end of this section, we had taken to driving along the railtracks. We had been warned about the dangers, the obvious one was being trapped when a train was coming, but also the railbed contains a lot of debris, spikes and such like which can easily shred a tyre. The track was on a raised bed, so getting off quickly if a train should appear would not be easy. Arriving safely at the next checkpoint we had a friendly chat with the soldiers, it was not normal for tourists to take this route and they were interested in what we were doing there.

At this point the route broke away from the railway and headed south. We were also on a vast plain of hard sand and for the first time could get into high box while off-road. We rushed down the track, three abreast exhilirating in the conditions. Ahead of us we could see sand dunes and we stopped at the first decent dune to make camp.

Up to the top.

On the Beach

Up to the top.

Heart of Darkness

As you are aware, there are problems in Zaire at the moment and this has thrown the trip into turmoil. As with the Marocco situation, reliabel information is difficult to obtain. We have spoken to people who were in Zaire through January and they encountered no problems, but we don't know how the problems in Kinshasa may have affected the Eastern provinces. Its not an easy decision, particularly with the vehicle as we cannot retreat from here as we could in Marocco. At the moment it appears that Ann Claude and Paul are going to leave the trip and fly out possibly to Nairobi. The Zaire situation is part of their decision, but I think they are finding overland travel more difficult and less rewarding than they expected. Its a shame to lose them. It has been an effort to keep the trip moving along to get us here on time. Its a major frustration to achieve that and then have these other problems.

On the brighter side, the trip from Calabar was quite rewarding. Passing into Cameroon at Otu, we made for Mamfe and then onto Bamenda over the worst road in the country. Seemingly there are Anglophile communities in both places and the Francophile majority keeps communication between the communities primitive. The Cameroon highlands were great. At last some geographical features, releif from the monotony of the West African flood plains. We had one camp at a small crater lake. Beautiful spot and due to the altitude and time of year is about equivalent to a British summer. From Bamenda the route has been direct to Bangui over quite good roads.

We had an afternoon stop at the Boali falls near Bangui. Quite impressive considering it is the dry season. The route through CAR has been punctuated with police checkpoints. Through the rest of Africa these have been formalities just requiring a check of the paperwork. In CAR they are looking for reasons to fine you. The first caught us fair and square for not wearing seat belts. We paid $15 on that one, but from there it got ridiculous at times. They tried to fine me $50 because I stopped betwen the two red triangles set out on the road, and not before the first one, this was 'Lack of respect for the red triangles'. They also regularly try to fine us for not carrying two warning triangles ourselves. We know that only one is required (we know the paragraph number in their book of road regulations now). So each time it is a waiting game and evntually they get bored and let us go.

So we are in Bangui. If we continue we'll go up river to Bangassou and cross there. This keeps us out of Zaire for a bit longer and avoids a troublesome border post at Zongo. I would expect to be in Kampala by mid March.

Up to the top.

Breakfast of Champions

You probably need to expereince four months of West and Central Africa, culminating in three weeks of Zaire, to really appreciate what crossing the Zaire, Uganda border means. The contrast is so great that even after two weeks in Uganda, the novelty has not worn off. Let me try and convey the experience.

I last wrote from Bangui, capital of C.A.R. (Central African Republic), corruption of officials was increasing as we went east. Fuel was increasingly expensive and food supplies were limited and poor. Add to that the riots in Kinshasa and Foreign Office advice for British citizens to leave Zaire. With our vehicles the options were fairly limited. Crossing the black heart of Africa, was the only way. We chose to head up river to Bangassou on the C.A.R. side. This cut down the distnace in Zaire, maintained our fuel supplies and gave time for the problems in Kinshasa to be resolved. With no further reports of trouble we cleared C.A.R. customs and crossed the river to Ndu in Zaire.

Zaire customs are notorious, by going up river we had avoided Zongo, opposite Bangui, a long term bed of corruption. At Ndu they were corrupt, but not well practised, or so we thought. Currency declaration forms, long dispensed with, were issued and while counting the money, the official palmed $100 from me and GBP50 plus $20 from my passenger Pat. When we realised what had happened we challenged the official then left the room to allow him to "find" the money. This he did and we spotted him transferring it to his mate for safe keeping. Walking in we thanked him for finding it and retrieved our funds.

Zaire corruption 0. Overlanders 1.

Whilst this was going on, two of our companions (Rob and Simon) were negotiating over the fact that their visas had run out. That cost them $100 each, but was fair game. So we got through the border relatively unscathed, perhaps it would not be too bad.

The road from Ndu to Buta is atrocious, poorly maintained with large erosion gullies and rough log bridges. It kept the driving interesting and as we went along we bartered our rubbish, empty cans and bottles, for local produce. Living promised to be cheap in Zaire.

It was at our 2nd ferry crossing at Bondo, that we met the Zaire sting. We queued for the ferry moored at the opposite bank, to find ourselves surrounded by the local militia. One in particular was high on something, very twitchy, blowing a whistle and shouting. He also had one of the guns. We were escorted to the office of the local immigration officer, responsible for the area which included Ndu. He wanted to check our currency declaration forms. This was organised theft. If the currecncy forms did not match exactly, we were fined $50. If they found any excess, it was confiscated. Now as we had to pay $6 for camera import duty, the forms were bound to be out. We lost $100 on that. The vehicles were then searched and $300 of hidden money was found, that was confiscated. Fortunately they did not find any of the $500 I had hidden around my Landrover. As the officers searched they removed any items of interest, cameras, radios, binoculars and the like. We do not know why, because when we asked for them back, they were duly returned. Perhaps it was a diversion, becuase we later discovered that small pocketable items, penknives, lighters and calculaters had gone missing. I thought I had lost my Swiss Army knife and calculator only to find they had merely been moved. They must have found a more interesting item and left the others in its favour. I lost nothing but money and perhaps gained a few grey hairs. Tough times.

Licking out wounds we boarded the ferry and drove down the road to camp. Now perhaps some people could put the experience behind them, relax and sleep soundly. I could not. At 00:30, I woke to find a small bush fire burning about 10 metres away. Coincident? Perhaps. Rest easy. No. The small fire was upwind of us, but a much larger fire was burning about 400 metres downwind and coming our way. As it burned, the bamboo exploded with loud cracks. Apprehension levels went into the red, and our convoy broke camp and moved out, expecting to be ambushed at any moment. The full Zaire experience, 200 km done and 1000km to do.

We drove through the night negotiating log bridges where you had to be guided across. If you had your lights on the guide could not see the wheels because of the glare, if the lights were off you could not see the guide’s signals. Adrenillin is a marvelous drug and I used plenty that night. Considering the roads we were driving after such a stressful day, a major driver error was almost inevitable. We drove for 12 hours and suffered not a scratch between the four vehicles.

This drive took us onto the main Kisangani road and back into an area where higher authority still ruled. This apart from one other incident was to be the end of our encounters with Zaire officialdom, but of course we did not know that at the time.

At Buta we had a choice of route, go North skirting the rain forest, where we knew that the police were being paid by a French company based in the area, or go through Kisangani, the classic overland route through the heart of Africa. We chose the latter and frankly were disappointed. The road is reasonable dirt track. Sure we got stuck in the occasional mud hole, but there was always a second passable route, allowing a recovery vehicle through to tow the first out. Kisangani is a town beyond its time, the river docks are empty and all produce from the east is trucked out through Uganda, rather than down the river. The Zaire river itself is at Kisangani, just another river, not particularly impressive. Being the end of the dry season, the Stanley falls were very unimpressive. All in all, I’ve been there and done that, but it wasn’t worth buying the ‘T’ shirt. So we drove on, still running on fuel bought in Nigeria and eating Nigerian food supplies. You could get fuel, and it got cheaper as we approached Uganda, but the quality was questionable. Food was also available, provided you could stomach another serving of reheated rice and haricot beans.

We visted the Station de Capture at Empula and luxuriated in the western standard campsite. We saw the okapi and trekked to the pygmy village. Interest levels were however low. We took the white road from Mombassa to Beni, hoping it would provide a bit of a challenge, but apart from clearing a couple of trees, it was reasonably good, with concrete bridges for heavens sake. We drove out of the white road into Beni and spiritually, if not officially, we left Zaire. The eastern highlands owe more to Uganda than Zaire. It was a taste, literally as the food was fresh and plentiful, of what was to come. But we had not escaped yet.

Beni is thriving, it is a major staging post for trade through to Uganda; and they serve ice cold beer. From Beni, we headed for the Rwenzoris, Ptolemy’s "Mountains of the Moon", and met typical Africa. There is a steep climb from the plains to Beni, halfway up a laden Ugandan truck had stalled. With no brakes, it had run backwards, and in attempting to stop it the driver put it up the bank and overturned it. This blocked half the road. No problems, thinks the driver of the empty petrol tanker heading down, I’ll squeeze round the side. He stops when he realises that his trailer is pushing him over the edge of a very steep drop. Success, the road is totally blocked. The first priority is to salvage as much fuel as possible from the overturned truck. They used leaves to scoop up the fuel from puddles and then stored it in hollow bamboo stems. The road is closed, probably for two days, so we turn round and head for Rutshoro.

The road along the highlands, is beautiful, almost alpine in places, following the crest of the ridges. In places it crosses colls, with the hillside dropping steeply away on both sides. So different from the rest of Zaire. Then you run out of highlands and the road drops down an escarpment and flat, flat riverside plains are laid out a thousand metres below. You feel one with the Gods, looking down and judging the efforts of the mortals below. Outstanding!

We arrive on the plains about 17:00, but it is a National Park and to stay just one night would cost $60.00 per person, for the park entry fee. We transitted this treasure at night and saw nothing except a few antelope in the first hour.

Slowly, slowly, the surroundings are mutating from Central into East Africa; but not yet the officials.

We arrive in Rutshuro the next morning and are stopped at a checkpoint. Carnet please, insurance please. Yes officer, here they all are, all valid. This insurance is not valid for Zaire, you will have to buy temporary insurance for Zaire. We are older, wiser and in a safer area. This is a total scam. But they have the carnets so we resort to an old C.A.R. tactic. We invade their office, have lunch, play cards and generally take over the place. This doesn’t get our carnets back as it would have done in C.A.R., but it does get the officer to move out. As a team, we pick the lock of the desk, retrieve the carnets, smuggle them back to the Landrovers, and leave in our own time.

A trip like this changes your approach, but Bondo still haunts me. I think we were safe from physical violence - I don’t think they had any ammunition for the guns - but it was too close.

We finished our visit to Zaire by seeing the gorillas, not the experience I expected, the manata rays in the Maldives were more thrilling.

Now I am in Uganda, stuffed after a three and a half hour, eat all you can for $10 breakfast. The rest of the Uganda story must wait the next letter. I’m on my way to the Indian Ocean.

 

Up to the top.

Indian Ocean.

Well here I am at last, sitting in the shade on the shores of the Indian Ocean. Effectively the overland trip is over, from here supplies should be plentiful and problems few. The group has also completely split up as we all head off to do our own things. We may reform to head South, but that depends on many things.

So, to bring you properly up to date. I wrote from Kampala recounting our explots in Zaire. From Zaire we crossed into Uganda at Kisoro and headed for Kabale. The scenery in this part of Uganda is beautiful, being formed of hundreds of extinct volcanoes cones, and heavily farmed. They call it 'Little Switzerland'. At Kabale we finally found that supplies were plentiful and spent most of the day working our way through the menu.

On our way to the Rwenzori mountains we stopped at the Queen Elizabeth National Park (Kickwamba). This was well worth the $10 entry fee. On the way to the lodge we spotted some elephants and when we tried to get a better view, the young male mock charged us. I know now that it was a mock charge, but at the time it was very dramatic. The lodge itself is in a fabulous setting high on a promotory overlooking Lake Edward. The park is famous for its hippos which swarm in the channel between Lake Edward and Lake George. We did a boat trip and saw loads of them very close. While in the park, we also saw plenty of antelope, wart hogs and a solitary leopard. Very lucky to see the latter. We haven't visited any of the Kenyan parks yet. People don't rate the QE Park because it was heavily poached through Amin's period, but I though it was great. We were precticaly alone in the Park which won't happen in Kenya.

From there we went on Kasese and paid $100 for the six day circuit of the Rwenzori. This proved to be the best $100 I've spent so far and rates with the desert crossing as one of the experiences of the trip. I won't go into the geology, but they are a range of mountains about 70 miles long, 30 miles wide and contain Mt Stanley, the 3rd highest in Africa. They are also very, very wet. We were advised by the booking officer that wellingtons were the best footware and he was right. For a lot of the trek you are wading through bogs, leaping from tussock to tussock or balancing along logs and roots. Get it wrong and you are up to your thighs in mud (Scoring system was: 1 welly equals top of the welly; 2 welly was knee deep, 3 welly thigh deep and 4 welly up to the waist. This counted for each leg, so a 2 welly squared was both legs knee deep. If you scored a 4 welly squared, you neededelp to get out and a good wash.) But the scenery and flora is superb. heavily faulted mountains topped with glaciers, moss covered trees and giant lobelia. Amazing. we were a party of eleven, myself, Hilary, Caroline, four Kiwi girls, two Swedish blokes, an American guy and a trumpet playing Dane. A fun crowd.

From there on to Kampala and a Sheraton beakfast, past the source of the nile at Jinja and into Kenya. Uganda was a wonderful country. It has a lot of potential and is really getting itself back together.

We spent the best part of a week in Nairobi restocking. For Africa it is amazing as you can get everything and thanks to the devaluation of the Kenyan shilling its very cheap. Exchange rates are a bit confused. The official rate is about 45/- to the $, but Barclays gives 66/- per 4. Other banks were in between, but have now conformed to the official rates. The transition gave me the opportunity to cash travellers cheques at 60?- and buy dollars at 45/-. I made $20 on that but the opportunity was short lived and involved buying in town and selling at the airport.

Up to the top.

Overlanders Convention.

So, friends and neighbours, the overland cavalcade finally rolls into Harare, that magical mystical town at the end of the overland road. Everybody is here, heroes and champions all. at the African Overland Convention ‘93. There’s the people we have travelled with all the way, the ones we have met occasionally and those we have only heard of but never met. Ten Landrovers and one Bedford truck, the sum total of the independents this year. An exclusive group and its Party Time!.

But that is now, this is then. The Lean Convoy reformed at the beginning of May, shy of the incredibly breakdown prone machine. Mike got a job with the UN which is just as well, because the consensus was that the green machine should be put down. So of my original party, I alone headed South. But the Landrover was full, two new passengers Mark and Rachel, being found in Nairobi. Rob and Simon in the blue 110 and the girls (less Hilary who flew home) completed the convoy. Harare was the destination and this is how we got there.

If you have one day in your life to visit a game park, go to the Ngorogoro crater. If you have three days, go to the Masai Mara. Believe me, I’ve been there, the Mara was superb, but the crater was mildly disappointing. In the Mara we had both lions and cheetahs walk within a few feet of the vehicles, elephants a plenty and a fleeting glimpse of a large rhino and calf. The number and variety of the game was impressive. Did I mention that the Mara was superb? After that we had high hopes for the crater. Africa in microcosm. THE game park. Well the setting is impressive, but we spent 1 1/2 hours driving and hardly saw any game. Not what we anticipated. That said, once we did get amongst the game we did see all the main animals and in good numbers through the course of the day. Perhaps we had just done too many game parks by that stage to really appreciate it. And it was in the crater that we saw a total of eight rhino. Only leopards had managed to evade us in our safaris, but time pressed and we left the game parks behind and headed through Arusha to Dar es Salam.

Dar is horrible, the campsite filthy, don’t go there if you can avoid it. The only reason we were there was to visit Zanzibar. A pleasant enough place and a hilarious tour of the spice plantations, but with the vehicle standing unattended on the mainland, not totally relaxing as Zanzibar should be. More time, even on a year’s sabbatical, you always need more time.

Onwards we pressed, through Morogoro, Iringa, Mbeya and Tukuyu to the border with Malawi at Kaporor. Malawi, the warm heart of Africa. Malawi, land of the lake. Malawi, country of surprises. Tanzania can be dismissed in a couple of paragraphs, Malawi needs much more. Malawi is beautiful.

Following the lake south we detoured to Livingstonia an old mission village perched a vertical 3000 ft above the lake. I don’t know its history but the setting is stunning. From there we went to the Nyika National Park. This was the first surprise of the country. Although it has a fair amount of game, the park is there for its scenery. Rolling hills, covered with grass and in the mornings shrouded with mist. It could be Scotland or the Yorkshire Dales, except that you don’t get leopards in Britain and there are over 200 in this park. We saw one on a night game drive (that was a first). Excellent, but forget the animals, it is the scenery. Scotland in perpetual sunshine, what could be better?

 

On from there, ever southward, along the lake shore, Nkata Bay, Senga Bay and eventually Cape McLear. Its winter in the Southern hemisphere and being BSAC divers, we dive in fresh water in winter, don’t we?. So lets examine the options. Gravel pits? No. Flooded quarries? No. Rift valley lakes? Yup, got one of those. Lets, dial in water temperature, say about 25 degrees - Centigrade. Diseases? Well there’s no Weils disease that I know of, and would you believe it Lake Malawi is the only lake in Africa free of Bilharzia. Looking good. Just need some fish life, and I’m afraid if you don’t like cichlids you might as well not bother. I used to keep them in an aquarium. You can’t swim in a tank 1.0m x 0.5m x 0.5m. Lake Malawi is just a wee bit bigger and has loads of cichlids. So lets see have we the perfect fresh water dive site yet? Endless sunshine and cold beer? All part of the deal. Time and money limited the diving to one dive, an altitude of 417m and a nearest recompression chamber in Durban restricted the depth to 20m. The dive was good, it is like swimming in an aquarium, but it was only afterwards when reading the guide book that I really appreciated what I had seen. If you’re interested in evolution, then the Lake Malawi cichlids are one of the best examples of adaptive radiation (look it up) in the world. OK, to keep the lecture short, the cichlids have adpated to fill almost every niche in the lake, mainly through changes in the teeth and head. But the buggers are too small and mobile to examine underwater - so I missed most of it. Lifes a bitch and all that.

Onwards to the Zomba plateau, picturesque but cold and wet at times, and then to the Mulanje mountain on the Mozambique border. We approached on a wet miserable day which cleared just enough to show vertical cliffs, 1000ft or so high with waterfalls cascading down along the length. Looked impressive. The area is set up for the walker, another surprise. Malawi is prepared for tourists, there just aren’t many tourists. There are a number of huts on the plateau and we visited two. Again the scenery is beautiful and not what you (I) expect from Africa, being largely grass covered. Malawi held a referendum on June 14th so we left on the 11th, just in case. On the way out we stopped at a tea plantation run by friends of one of the party (roast pork for dinner) then on to Blantyre to get our Mozambique visas. Yes we were going to run the Tete corridor. For those who don’t know, the corridor is a major freight route between Malawi and South Africa. As such it was repeatedly attacked and mined during the Mozambique civil war and convoys along it were with military escort. That was then, this is now. UN peace keepers are in Mozambique and the corridor is safe - but don’t leave the main road. We didn’t. We paid our visas costs, our thirty day insurance, our road tax and out person tax at the border. What we weren’t prepared to do was pay a speeding ticket. We were stopped in Moatize and find $20. for speeding. We had been stopped 400m down the road, it was uphill and I was still in 3rd. @.25 diesel Landrovers do not accelerate particularly well and from a standing start they do not get to 60kph in 400m. There was no way I was going to pay $20. I was a CAR and Zaire veteran and so was Rob. Unfortunately the police did not agree with our view and left with our passports. So Rob and I hopped in the back of their Landrover. When we arrived at the compound they told us the commandant would see us if we would just wait in the little crowded barred an locked waiting room. Now I’m no expert but I recognise a prison cell when I see one. Unfortunately I can now also recognise AK 47s and assess whether they are in working order. Prison cell? Check. Serviceable assault rifles? Check Determined police officers? Check. Said Rob to me, "I think we screwed up this time". Check

Well passive resistance kept us out of the cells and the others managed to find us and went and got the UN colonel to help. After waiting four hours, a UN interpreter arrived and it transpired that the fine was not $20, but 10,000 Mozambique thingys. How much is that in real money? About GBP 1.30. We paid. We got our passports back and we left at speed. Yes we left at speed , because we now had a UN escort. For the next ten miles anyway. They stopped for a beer in Tete, which we could no longer afford, having spent all our Mozambique thingys.

And that pretty well brings us up to date. We arrived in Harare on the 11th in time to watch the All Blacks beat the Lions and we have been eating and drinking since. Did you know you can get fresh cream doughnuts in Harare? No? Well neither did I, but you can.

From here it looks like the final fragmentation of the convoy. Simon and Kev will travel on with me to Namibia, the others are looking for jobs and will stay around for a while to see what turns up. We expect to be at Vic Falls about the end of the month and then spend July in Namibia. All going well, I’ll be in Cape Town by early to mid August, and there where the Atlantic meets the Indian, I’ll call it quits. Thoughts are moving to the future. The challenge of Africa is past. I could be in Cape Town in a week, Namibia is just the last bit of fun. I’ll write from Windhoek.

 

Travel Weary.

Greetings from the travel weary of Namibia. Both I and the Landrover are starting to feel the strain of ten months on the road. Perhaps we both are just too old for this kind of trip. OK, OK, don’t take it too seriously, I’m only kidding. There is some truth though, the poor old Landie cracked its bulkhead again after getting it welded in Harare, the main battery expired, and oil consumption is rising to the point where I’ve got a 2.25 litre diesel two stroke. For me, I’ve seen so many game parks and so much dramatic scenrey, that it takes something realyy special to break the boredom. Fortunately, this stage has been full of special places.

Some of you may remember that when they resurrected the Thunderbirds a couple of years back, they were unable to trace one of the puppets. I think it was Virgil. Well good news all you fans. Virgil escaped to Zimbabwe and set up a hotel in Chimanimani. It must be true. All the staff are outfitted in Thunderbirds uniforms, complete with sash and squashed hat. F.A.B.

As the weather was dismal, we left Chimanimani (what a great name) and moved on to the ruins of Great Zimbabwe. One of the Special places. When you have got used to mud huts and breeze block building, Great Zim is a revelation. It is the largest historic structure in Africa south of the Sahara. Obviously, someone checked out the pyramids and I think some of the Roman ruins in Morroco such as Volubnis, would surpass it. Great Zim is a large complex, larger than I had appreciated and the standard of the stone work is good. When you consider there is really no other similar structure for thousands of miles, it is exceptional. And the reason for its construction is still not fully understood. A bit of a mystery is Great Zim.

The road tokk us on through Bulawayo (cold and wet but we saw the Wimbledon finals) to Hwange National Park (another great game park) to Victoria Falls.

Now we all thought it would be cool to go to Vic Falls town and not see the Falls. Fortunately, one thing I haven’t learned in Africa is how to be cool. We were there five days and I went to see the Falls four times, once from the Zambian side. The Falls are not just Special, they are unique in my experience. With the volume of water passing over them when we were there, you never see more than 100 metres or so of the falls at any one time, due to the mist. They are 2.7 kilometres long. It takes a long time to walk their length, and all the time you are accompanied by the smoke and the thunder. Sensory overload.

So on to Botswana and the Okavanga Delta. A one hour flight over the Delta, and three days in a makoro (dug out canoe) comprised our visit. The flight gave the overview of the area and the makoro trip filled in the details. A very different place to visit, but only a special place (small s). In the makoro, you see very little apart from the channel you are following, the reeds at the side and a large assortment of birds flying past. On shore you get the chance to go for a game walk and stand a good chance of seeing elephant and a variety of antelope. A nice peaceful place, but when you are travel weary, it only merits a small ‘s’.

On to Namibia and Etosha National Park. From Kenya south we had heard of Etosha, talked about in hushed tones. Etosha is Special. Etosha was also destined to be our last game park. Whne travel weary you start to counts the lasts. The last oil change, the last visa, the last $1000. At Etosha, I got my first puncture, that was special.

Etosha comprises of salt pans and water holes. As the dry season bites, game concentrates round the water holes. Choose one, park and wait. Giraffe, zebra, sprinkboek will all turn up. If you are lucky, and we were, an elephant herd may come down to drink, or a cheetah, or a pride of lions. But be patient. Game in Etosha is much more timid than in eastern Africa. You are not allowed off the roads, so the game has not been forced to accept the intrusion of tourist vehicles. Etosha game is still very natural. To see the big cats there is very Special.

At the main camp, Okaukuejo, it is made easy, as they have a floodlit water hole, where we watched elephant, giraffe, antelope, rhino and lion, with a beer glass in hand (us not the game).

It was a little shocking to learn that a tourist had been killed by lions at that waterhole two weeks after we had been there. It was the first death in ninety years of the park’s history. The chap had been asleep on benches of the viewing gallery. He should have been safe. We had slept there also.

From Etosha we headed north to the Angolan border, into Kaokaland. The last wilderness of southern Africa. Here the indigenous people, the Himba, have not yet been spoilt by tourism. They are an elegant race and look stunning in their traditional red ochre body paint and copper jewelry - they don’t actually wear much else. I suspect the Massai were probably similar in attitude ten to twenty years ago. I fear that in five years, westernisation will have destroyed the Himba culture. It will take longer to destroy the scenic grandeur of the place. Dominated by the linear oasis of the Cunene river, it is otherwise arid and rocky, providing dramatic backdrops for the driving. The Landrover’s first and last experience of extended rocky terrain. The area is already being heavily visited, mainly by South Africans, and the access roads are heavily corrugated. It was when leaving on what should have been a decent road that the Landrover bulkhead gave up again. That was a crippling road, but we made it to Khorixas, where we refuelled, intending to do a quick transit of the Skeleton Coast Park on our way to Swokomund.

In speaking to locals, we were advised to follow a track down the Huab river into the park. It was our last chance to see a bit of wilderness so although it would only be one vehicle, we did so. Navigation was by the sun and a rather inadequate map. It was a good route, allowing us to see mountain zebra and oryx in extremely arid conditions. It was almost spoilt, when on the morning of the second day, the battery was found to be flat. Fortunately, the problem had been anticipated and we had parked on the top of a slight rise. A 50 kilometre walk along a dry riverbed had been avoided. Stalling in a sand dune was still to be avoided. We made it but a Travel Weary Landrover is not to be depended on.

The Skeleton Coats is a desolate place and despite reaching the Atlantic again, I was not tempted to stop. In the 50km from the park boundary, to the coast, the shade temperature dropped fro 32 degrees Centigrade to 15. Its a cold current that flows up this coast and it ensures the coast is normally shrouded in fog. We drove down to Swakomund, a very clean tidy place, but reminiscent of Swanage on a sunny spring day.

Windhoek itself reminds me of a typical Swiss town, very clean and only missing snow on the surrounding hills. From here it is 1500km , less than 1000 miles to Cape town. The last 1000 miles. The itinery is fairly brief now: Sossusvlei (300 metre sand dunes), Fish River Canyon (2nd largest after the Grand Canyon), Cape Town. Perhaps ten days. Aiy! The last ten days. Champagne and handkerchiefs will be provided for the emotional moment at the lighthouse on the Cape of Good Hope.

 

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The End

Cape Town

 

 

Last Changed 22nd June 1998 (Created); 25th Sept 2009 (resurrected from archuive)