Africa Attraction

Fade to Black (Roll Credits)

2010-03-16T12:43:00.000-07:00

Well, we made it back for Christmas. I’d have said so sooner had my computer not decided to die on Christmas Eve, taking with it a number of unpublished blog postings (you’ll have to take my word for it: they were literary gems). I suppose I could have used another computer to recount the last stages of our journey in nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat instalments, but by the time we’d hurtled through northern Africa, much of Europe, and collapsed into Essex, we were too tired to resist the steady stream of normality that is life back in the UK.

It’s rather sobering, if not a little scary, just how easy it was to ‘readjust’ to life here. We arrived back on December 23 and it was only a matter of time before we were complaining constantly about the weather (‘It’s snowing! Stop everything – trains, cars, work – and talk about the weather! Quickly!’), fretting about finding gainful employment before 2012, and I’m even up to speed with the latest gossip from the Celebrity Big Brother House.

Africa: a distant, unreal memory.

Blurred memories owe themselves in part to the blur of movement that characterised the final days of our journey. We tumbled into Libya only to disappoint Mr Fathi by insisting we forego all the Roman remnants his country had to offer (with the exception of Leptis Magna, which we toured in 25 minutes flat) and reach Tripoli as quickly as possible. This we did – only to stay in the capital long enough (a night) to make the following observations:

1) It’s really difficult to find an ATM that accepts Mastercard or Visa.
2) The place is a sausage-fest. There are no women. Seriously.
3) The countless billboards sporting Gadafi’s image serve no other purpose other than to remind Libyans that their leader looks like a crap Michael Jackson. (Incidentally: Gadafi is spelled ‘Gandalf’ according to Mircosoft Word.)

Our brief Libyan dalliance culminated in an 8am meeting with Mr Hamid in a deserted car park just outside Tripoli. It was the nearest I’ll ever get to living out my Miami Vice fantasies (I’d be Jamie Foxx, obviously, Davy could be Colin Farrell, and Giles... I don’t know... Giles could be Gong Li). As it happened, the meeting resulted in us handing Mr Hamid the money we owed him rather than a high-octane gun fight, which was a relief, especially considering that we didn’t have any guns.

We left Mr Fathi at the Tunisian border, which we crossed without hindrance. It took a whole day to get into Libya and little under half an hour to leave – a telling indication, perhaps, of just how serious the authorities are about attracting 1.5 million tourists in 2010.

In a blink of an eye (or so it seemed) we had arrived in Tunisia, the final instalment of our African adventure. But in truth, ‘Africa’ – if there is such a thing – had been long left behind us. The only thing that Tunisia has in common with its southern neighbours is that it happens to share the same lump of soil. And while Libya and Egypt are Middle Eastern in culture, Tunisia might as well be European: French is widely spoken, continental food is ubiquitous, and come summertime its beaches are besieged by thousands of Brits. In reality, the last we saw of ‘Africa’ was in Sudan. Everything thereafter – the physical, cultural and ethnic boundaries we crossed to reach Tunis – was lost to the speed at which we were travelling.

We made it in time to the ferry and would be home for Christmas. Our haste had served its purpose, but we couldn’t help feel that it had betrayed the essence of our journey. After all, the whole point of overland travel, whether by car, bus or bicycle, is its deliberate pace. Driving through Africa afforded us the time to watch the continent unfold, mile by mile, country by country; to tell us its story. And we’re better for it. It was only when we reached the queues, concrete and cars of Tunis port did we realise that we’d finished the story by skimming the final few chapters.

Our disorientation was further compounded by our journey across the Mediterranean. As a rule, I find ferries depressing – sad remnants of an industry that promised so much, only to be cuckolded by the birth of budget air travel. The Zeus Palace was no different. Its ‘continental’ coffee bar was littered with sleeping bodies unable to afford cabin accommodation, while staff wore expressions that begged for assisted suicide. The garishly coloured play area was taken straight from the set of Children of Men, and the unattended slot machines of the compact ‘casino’ gleamed like a fake smile, empty and sad. To make matters worse, Tunisian currency wasn’t accepted onboard (which made sense seeing as we’d just left Tunisia...), leaving us no other choice but to fester in our cabins, sustaining ourselves on dried fruits, nuts and olives, and praying that the restaurant would accept Visa when it opened.

If life were a movie, we could have skipped this part and cut to our triumphant return to England (accompanied by a rousing orchestral score, of course). Instead, we lay on our beds for two days with only a non-stop drive to Calais to look forward to...

... We reached Calais in 36 hours. It would have been sooner were it not for the snow around Milan, but we were still in time to catch the last ferry to Dover on the night of the December 22.

We stepped into Britain before we’d even reached the White Cliffs; the P&O ferry we took was a filled with bad food, high prices and talk of the weather. And it was frightening how normal it all felt. We could have been coming back from a booze cruise or a skiing holiday, not a journey that had spanned two continents, 11countries, and 13,713 miles. No one knew where we’d been and no one cared. And really, why should they?

We sleepily navigated the car through the dark, winding country roads of southern England to our lodgings for the night, a quintessential English pub in a quaint, forgettable English village (really, at the time of writing, none of us can remember its name). The Red Lion landlord served us three pints of ale and proceeded to feign mild interest in the war stories of the three bedraggled young men who sat before him.

‘From where?’

‘Windhoek, Namibia...’

Silence.

‘Well, basically we’ve driven back here all the way from Cape Town.’

‘Ah, Cape Town! Yes. Did you see the cricket?’

For us to have seen the cricket (which had started two days previously in Cape Town) and be having this conversation would have meant we'd driven the entire length of Africa in 48 hours.

No. We had not seen the cricket.

Silence.

‘Have you seen Zulu?’

We had seen Zulu.

The landlord's eyes shone: At last, common ground!

‘What’s the sequel called? Zulu Dawn, I think. Have you seen that?’

We hadn’t seen Zulu Dawn.

Silence.

‘Another drink, lads?’

Cricket and Zulu Dawn. We’d travelled thousands of miles through Africa and the first person we were able to share our adventures with was only interested in a sport that England are rubbish at and a prequel that garnered tepid critical acclaim.

The hobbits had returned to the Shire; their adventures left long behind them.

Of all the places to conclude an epic journey, we chose Roydon, Essex. Well, we didn’t so much choose to end up in Roydon, Essex – Roydon, Essex happened to be where Foley’s Land Rover garage was. And of all the people, to drive the last leg of the journey, it was me who that found myself behind the wheel; probably on account of Davy being too tired and Giles not having yet passed his UK driving test.

Traffic was slow owing to the ‘adverse’ weather conditions that had gripped Britain (a dusting of snow and icy roads). This was fine with us – we’d conquered continents and were mere miles away from the finish line. The morning was crisp, brilliant and invigorating. England wasn’t the dark, rainy bastion of unemployment I’d been expecting – at least it wasn’t during that short drive from the Red Lion to Roydon. The air was crisp; the morning sky was brilliant blue; spirits were high. We’d made it back to England against all odds. How difficult could finding a job be?

There was one last twist to our tale, which warrants a mention if only because of its delicious timing. We met Davy’s family at a Roydon pub where we unloaded the contents of the Land Rover – our home for three and a half months – into the boots of various cars. As we unpacked, we regaled them with exaggerated tales of our derring do, which they humoured with enthusiasm. Once we’d gutted the car of everything we owned, our welcoming party went inside with Davy to order us lunch, while Giles and I would drive the last half mile of our journey to the Foley's, hand over the keys and return to lunch. We got into the car, turned the key... and nothing.

The alternator had died.

Life doesn’t benefit from tidy cinematic conclusions, but if there was ever a time for the movie of our journey to end and for the credits to roll, it would have been then – the second we realised that, with just half a mile to go, our trusty steed had chosen to die in Roydon, Essex.

No, credits don't roll in the real world. Life just goes on.

But hindsight is a truly wonderful thing and, in my mind, the final furlong of our journey is a montage of sweeping shots of desert landscape, choked city roads, ocean views and winding mountain passes; of us driving through night and day, snow and sleet, to an uplifting soundtrack, while we stared out at the road ahead in silence, inwardly reflecting on all that we’ve seen, all that we’ve been through, the people we met along the way... flashbacks of Namibia’s vast plains; sipping Chenin Blanc to a backdrop of rolling vineyards; a hyena skulking through the darkness in South Luangwa; watching the red African sun sink into the Zambezi; swimming in Lake Malawi by moonlight; the smells and tastes of Stone Town’s night market; evading bandits on the road to Marsabit; children running alongside the car in Ethiopia; taking morning coffee in Wadi Halfa...

Credits don't roll in the real world.

The Foley brothers came and revived the Land Rover long enough for us to get back to the garage. Keys were handed over, deposit returned, our gratitude to the Foley brothers expressed, and then back to the pub for lunch.

Daylight eventually faded to black - a bit like the end of the movies, I suppose - but we knew better than to wait around for the credits. We knew it was time to catch the train back to London. We knew it was time to get back to life, back to reality.

Africa by numbers

Accidents: 0
Breakdowns: 3 (Shocks, fuel filter, alternator)
Passengers along the way: 6
Countries: 11
Days on the road: 79
Distance travelled: 13,713 (Windhoek-Cape Town-Tunis)
Gentleman Explorers: 3

The Worst Day in Africa... Ever! (Part 2)

2009-12-19T05:33:00.000-08:00

According to their website, the good people at the Libya Tourist Board are hoping to attract over 1.5 million tourists in 2010. Or something along these lines – I’m not really one for fact checking. This is all very well, there’s some good stuff to see in Libya, but 1.5 million tourists is a rather ambitious target considering that it is such a pain in the scrotum to get into the damn country.

Back in Aswan, other than eating inhuman quantities of McDonald’s, we managed to get in touch with the Libya fixer recommended to us by the snappily dressed Belgian chaps we met at the Sudan border. Mr Hamid (whitepens@yahoo.com) is a good sort and assured us that there would be no problem getting a visa. This, however, was the easy part.

Visitors to Libya are obliged by law to be accompanied at all times by a guide (read: minder). As a consequence of us breaking down earlier that day, we arrived at the Libyan border four hours late to find our guide, Mr Fathi (pronounced ‘fatty’ – chortle), patiently waiting for us.

After introducing himself, Mr Fathi (chortle) and Giles set about visiting various offices to attain various pieces of paper that would then be stamped and traded for various certificates that would, in theory, grant us passage through the country.

We came to the conclusion that customs officials from Sudan upwards must have a running wager as to who could delay us for the longest: seven hours elapsed from the moment we met Mr Fathi (chortle) to the moment we extracted our car from customs. On the bright side, we did manage to get the car out that evening; there was a danger that we’d have to sleep at the border and complete the rigmarole the next day. This meant that we were able to get on the road first thing, rather than endure another half day of eye-bleeding bureaucratic nonsense.

Just as we did in Egypt, we would have driven through the night were it not for the fact that it’s illegal for foreigners to travel after sunset. When asked why this was, Mr Fathi (chortle) simply replied: ‘It is to avoid troubles.’

Reading between the lines: there are lots of vampires in Libya.

The Worst Day in Africa... Ever! (Part 1)

2009-12-17T14:35:00.000-08:00

We’d made Cape to Cairo without having to change a tyre, so we were due a puncture. It came at the end of an 804-mile day, just as we were pulling into Matruh. Little did we know this would be the first of many setbacks that we would endure over the next 24 hours. We refuelled and then, tired as we were, had a small boy change the tyre for us. Whoever said that child labour is a bad thing hasn’t had a flat in the middle of the desert at 11.30pm. Once we were able, we headed into town and found a hotel, which we once again checked out of after four hours sleep.

Our fatigue, combined with the freezing, pitch black morning had dulled our senses and we duly missed the turning for the border town of Salum. It took us over an hour to find the road again, during which time we witnessed a truck ahead of us veer off the road. It was dark and we were moving quickly, so much so we passed it before really realising what had happened. Initially I thought it had rolled, but it appeared to be upright when we passed it. It only occurred to me that I should have stopped a mile on. We couldn’t turn back and I was gripped by guilt – I should have stopped, but it was too late now. Was it? We alerted a policeman at a nearby checkpoint. He seemed to understand and my torment was partially alleviated. Partially.

Karma caught up with us 20 minutes later when the car began to lose power. Within 30 minutes we could only just muster 20mph. Things had started to go wrong just as time had got tight.

Giles volunteered himself to hitch ahead and find help, leaving Davy and I to crawl along towards the miniature buildings we could just about make out on the horizon. Thirty minutes later we arrived at a garage where Giles had long been trying to convey our troubles by way of wild gesticulation to a man in dirty overalls. Despite the gentleman’s functional attire, he claimed he knew nothing of mechanics. Join the club. He did, however, point us to a garage further down the road. We started up our faltering engine and proceeded onward.

There were no mechanics at the next garage either. We would have to solve the problem for ourselves. Oh dear.

We dusted off our Haynes manual and began thumbing through its pages in search of a solution to our predicament. After much speculation, Giles guessed that the problem lay with the fuel filter. Davy and I were inclined to agree since it was due for a change (every 12,000 miles, apparently), plus the fact it was one of many possible causes for our problems that we could fix for ourselves.

Previously, we’d only ventured under the bonnet to clean the air filter and to check water and oil levels – and even then we weren’t entirely sure what we were doing, we’d just make a point to do it when girls were around. Two of us prodded aimlessly around, while the other dictated from the manual. If we hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere, freezing and increasingly falling behind schedule, we’d have appreciated the comedy value of the scene. As it stood, the humour was lost on us.

At least we had managed to locate the fuel filter and thanks to Mr Haynes, wherever and whoever he is, had a vague idea of how to change it. But we couldn’t get the damn thing to budge and since our combined mechanical experience is tantamount to that of a dead cat we were reluctant to apply our trademark brute force (ahem).

We began to despair. We were in the middle of a freezing, sand-swept desert and there wasn’t a mechanic in sight. Christmas had never seemed so far away.

We took a break from our fool’s errand, each responding to the stress of the sitiation in our own different way. Giles, ever the pragmatist, went off in search of help; Davy went to find a cigarette (having ‘given up’ he didn’t have any on his person); and I went for a poo.

I returned to find the car surrounded by a colourful array of headscarves and football shirts. A minibus had stopped to refuel, prompting Davy to approach its driver for a cigarette (rather than for help, such were his priorities). At this, the driver and his passengers alighted to offer advice in shouts of incomprehensible broken English. The driver took control of the situation by retrieving his tool box and setting about the fuel filter and its related components.

As he worked, I did my best to field questions I couldn’t really understand about Allah. After a lot of pointing to the sky, to which I gave an enthusiastic thumbs up – I tried to change the subject to football; a sure bet in any country.

‘Arsenal!’ I cried.

‘Allah!’ Came the reply.

The football stadium might be the new place of worship in England, but it was clear where people’s loyalties lay in Egypt.

Seeing the driver was almost done replacing the fuel filter, I extracted myself from this increasingly awkward conversation and sat behind the wheel to rev the engine a little. Once the air had been pushed out of the system (again, excuse the terminology, I have no idea of what I’m talking about), I took our ailing mare out for a test drive and, much to my relief, she seemed to have recovered.

We thanked the minibus driver – who did not ask for money, regardless of the opportunist entreaties of some of his passengers – and set our sights on Libya.

The morning’s adversity may have tested our patience, but it was nothing in comparison to the ordeal we were to suffer at the border. After all, mechanical problems tend to have logical solutions, but logic does not come into play at Egyptian border crossings. Though not as painful as the 21 different procedures Giles endured to extract our car from the port at Aswan, we still had to deal with two and a half hours’ worth of idiocy to escape a country that we were becoming increasingly fed up with.

Three US dollars departure tax to the ‘official’ wearing a full AC Milan tracksuit. Ten Egyptian pounds to have our car ‘checked’, and another ten to a fat man in an office (for no other apparent reason that he was fat and had an office all to himself...)

Considering that Egypt has more other tourists per annum than any other African nation, they do go out of their way to make the life of overland visitors utter misery. The three of us agreed that if we were ever to come back to Egypt we’d fly.

The Cape to Cairo Club

2009-12-17T14:19:00.000-08:00

Hitherto we had no need to travel at night, but if we were going to be home for Christmas, we would be required to drive after the sun went down. Though we had commissioned German Chris (paying him in cartons of cigarettes since he wouldn’t accept money) to fix our faulty headlights in Wadi Halfa, driving on Egyptian roads alongside Egyptian drivers at night was still a new and somewhat intimidating experience.

Nevertheless, we made good time and were in Luxor by 8pm that evening. But new frustration lay in wait for us at the police checkpoint. Egypt’s love of petty laws and bureaucracy dictates that foreigners aren’t allowed to drive from Luxor onwards after 6pm. Even in daylight hours tourists are technically required to travel with a police escort. But perhaps I’m being overly cynical: acts of terrorism have been a huge detriment to Egypt's tourism industry, so it’s understandable that the government have taken such precautions.

Despite this setback, an officer told us in broken English that it would be possible to buy a permit for night travel from the police station in town.

What was a glimmer of hope deteriorated into a wild goose chase, with us bouncing from police station to police station only to be told at 11.30pm that there was no chance of continuing that night. Disheartened, we took modest lodgings at an innocuous, unmemorable hotel, which we left four hours later to continue our journey.

It was a new day, but the same obstacles remained. We arrived back at the checkpoint at 5.30am, only to be told we could not proceed until 6am. We sat and waited in stewed silence, taunted by the steady stream of local traffic that passed by unhindered.

After receiving crackled confirmation that we could proceed, an apologetic police officer sent us on our way. It was 6.10am and the sun had begun to rise. Not for the first time on our journey were we treated to a sky set ablaze in pinks, purples and reds – a sunrise that only served to remind us of all that we were missing in northern Africa. The Valley of the Kings was minutes away, but we had no time to see it.

A number of overlanders we’d met heading south had advised not to bother stopping at the minor checkpoints. It wasn’t a legal requirement and we’d only be hindered by bored policemen looking for something to do. As such, we agreed only to stop at checkpoints where the guns were big enough to scare us. Happily, there were none and we laughingly sped through three, followed only by the shouts of the sleepy-eyed policemen that we’d caught off guard.

Rather than take the more direct inland route to Cairo, we opted for the coastal road, which gave us three lanes of motorway to play with. With the Red Sea to our right and the open road ahead, we soon outran worry and fatigue.

As we approached the capital, the three-lane motorway bottlenecked into a single carriageway and we were sucked into Cairo’s clogged arteries. It was chaos, and it was just my luck to be driving. Davy has long established himself as our ‘city specialist’, but he had clocked up a hefty mileage that morning and so it was down to me to nervously navigate the city’s notoriously hazardous roads.

With no visibility in the rear view mirror, our Land Rover isn’t the most city-friendly of vehicles. However, its hulking size does count for something, namely the fact that we will win most collisions and thus it’s in the best interest for even the most reckless drivers to give us a wide berth (more so when my peripheral vision and I are behind the wheel). As such, we navigated our way towards the pyramids, which soon revealed themselves: alien silhouettes among Cairo’s modern tower blocks. The site was surreal and magnificent to equal measure, which is just as well since our 5.30pm arrival meant we were too late to visit them. We didn’t care. The exhilaration of finally completing the fabled Cape to Cairo had taken hold of the four of us. We celebrated by bribing our way onto the golf course next to the pyramids and taking photos. If anything, this absurd scenario will remain more memorable than if we had visited the pyramids properly.

We didn’t dwell on our achievement for long. We wanted to escape Cairo before 6pm in case the same road rules applied as in Luxor. We bid Marcus, the honorary gentleman explorer, farewell and set off into the night. We’d come a long way, but our journey was far from over.

Go Hard, Get Home

2009-12-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the seconds.

At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing.

At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by hurrahs, and some fierce growls.

The players rose from their seats.

At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club doors, and in his calm voice, said, “Here I am, gentlemen!”

The battle of elbows didn’t come until we docked in Aswan. We arrived at 9.30am as opposed to the initial ETA of 1pm. There was a chance we could get our car through customs that same day and be on the road by Friday. Excellent.

But there’s no place for optimism in Aswan. Nor for common sense. We were kept on the boat for five hours for no particular reason. Customs officials and unkempt, smoking police officers loitered apathetically on the shore, while we waited... and waited. The sun climbed higher, heating tempers as it did. Reading Tim Butcher’s antics in the Congo could only keep my frustrations at bay for so long. We had cheerfully tolerated nine days in the Nubian Desert simply because we had no other choice, but to be in spitting distance from Egypt and be kept waiting for this long was unbearable.

At last there came a call for foreigners with vehicles to disembark. We hurriedly collected our bags and headed downstairs. We descended into carnage. Other than the overlanders (there were nine other vehicles) who had stayed on deck, every man, woman and child had crammed themselves in the hull on arrival, assuming (understandably) that they’d be able to disembark now the boat had docked. Men were yelling angrily, children were crying and women were shrieking; all under the ‘watchful’ eye of the police, whose crowd control (or lack thereof) had been the cause of the chaos.

Nevertheless, we were ordered to make for the door and were left no other choice but to force our way through the already volatile crowd. Weeks earlier a ferry had capsized in Bangladesh because everyone had rushed at once to the exit, causing the boat to topple over. Images of the ship springing a leak and the ensuing stampede haunted my thoughts, giving me extra incentive to get out as soon as possible. I took a deep breath, dropped my shoulder and dived into the heaving sea of humanity.

We’d made it.

Well, not quite.

We were led into the decrepit customs hall (aptly misspelled on signs as ‘Customs Hole’) and led into a small office dominated by a corpulent, self-important official who proceeded to waste our time for another two hours. At least by this stage, the woeful inefficiency and downright stupidity of whole situation had become comical.

Since Friday is the start of the weekend in Egypt, we were told that the earliest we could retrieve our car was Saturday. We were expecting this, but the delay didn’t help our plans. At best, we’d be on the road by the December 12, giving us just 11 days (from the beginning, we had always intended to arrive in the UK on Dec 23) to make it back for Christmas.

Frustrated, but resigned to our fate, we took a taxi into town and straight to McDonald’s. Twenty seven chicken nuggets, three Big Mac meals and three McFlurries later, we went to the pub. Being stranded in Aswan for an extra day perhaps wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

Giles, to his credit, took one for the team and went to sort out the car the next morning. Davy and I offered (half-heartedly) to assist him, but we were told that only one person per vehicle could go. We waved Giles off, and went to McDonald’s.

Giles reported back at 3pm (he’d left at 8am). The cars wouldn’t be ready until Sunday. Sunday December 13. We’d lost yet another day. We went to the pub.
We now had just ten days to get back for Christmas. One car, two ferries, five countries, 6,000 kilometres, and ten days... Technically, we could do it, but it was going to be tight.

When we told people that we still planned to be home before December 25, they’d laugh, scoff, or shake their head. ‘Why don’t you just enjoy the rest of your journey and miss Christmas?’ They’d ask.

They had a point. Why the rush? Well, for one, there’s only so much money I can borrow off Giles before breaking into heavy sobs every time I look in the mirror. More importantly, perhaps, Christmas is the only thing Davy and I can look forward to in the near future, other than being unemployed and watching copious amounts of daytime TV.

And, of course, we want to be home by Christmas so we get lots of presents. I’m kidding. We want to be home for Christmas because we said we would be. Simple as that. It’s the principle. It’s our very own gentleman’s wager – not with the patrons of the Reform Club, but with ourselves.

Obviously, the dynamic of the journey will change – it’ll be a race against time rather than a road trip – but ultimately driving, getting from point A to B has always been the essence of this adventure.

December 13 – lucky for some, we hoped. Giles left for the port at the slightly more leisurely time of 10am, while Davy and I busied ourselves buying supplies for what was set to be an epic journey. We would be accompanied as far as Cairo by Marcus (www.blogabond.com/MarucsInAfrica), an honorary gentleman explorer who we met in Wadi Halfa. Though the spare passenger seat had previously been reserved for attractive European women and Masai warriors, we were happy for Marcus’ company. He was a personable and vociferous character, just the kind of person we needed to help keep the driver awake.

Around 3.30pm, Giles arrived back with the car. It was an emotional reunion, but we didn’t dwell for long – we packed and refuelled and set course for Cairo.

Sudan by Numbers

2009-12-17T13:35:00.000-08:00

Day 64 21.11.09
Gonder (Ethiopia)-Geradef
Accommodation: Again, I can’t remember...
Distance: 217 miles (though this can’t be verified since we reset the odometer some way into the journey)

Day 65 22.11.09
Geradef-Wad Medani
Accommodation: The Continental (SDG 90)
Distance travelled: 115 miles

Day 66 23.11.09
Wad Medani-Khartoum
Accommodation: Friends
Distance travelled: 125 miles

Day 67-71 24.11.09-28.11.09
Rest day

Day 72 29.11.09
Khartoum-Abu Dom
Accommodation: The desert
Distance travelled: 217 miles

Day 72-Day 81 30.11.09-09.12.09
Abu Dom-Wadi Halfa
Accommodation: The desert (apart from nights of Dec 7&8 – Nile Hotel SDG 9 per person)
Distance travelled: 365 miles

Total distance travelled: 1,039 miles (approx)

Surviving Wadi Halfa

2009-12-11T01:56:00.000-08:00

The sun rose from underneath its dune-dimpled blanket to illuminate our first morning in the desert in pink and red hues. Such sunrises should stay with a man for the rest of his days, but I could only think how rubbish I’d be in prison. Nine days in the desert isn’t a life sentence by any stretch of the imagination, but the thought of keeping ourselves entertained until the ferry came was daunting to say the least. Circumstance had trapped us in a sandy Shawshank (without the unremitting threat of buggery) and I was the fat man who breaks down on the first night.

We had no other choice but to make the best of our situation, so we set about devising a daily routine that would ensure we left Wadi Halfa with our sanity partially intact. The first thing we had to do was slow down – from the way we talked to the pace at which we walked. At its fastest, life in Wadi Halfa was no more than a crawl and we had to act accordingly: we stayed in bed for as long as we could (no later than 8am on account of the cold), a slow drive into town, and then coffee or tea at one of the town’s ubiquitous sitchai stands.

Here, ladies wrapped in colourful cotton shawls prepare anything from hibiscus tea to mint tea to spiced coffee; the ingredients for each are nimbly plucked from the glass jars that line their tin-chest work counter. Not a drop is spilled as leaves are mixed with spices and piping hot water, which is then strained into a dainty glass presented on a similarly styled tea tray. One coffee would be followed in quick succession by another – an antidote to the cold sleeplessness of the previous night.

The sun might slow Wadi Halfa to a near standstill, but it fuels its friendliness. As we sat sipping coffee, ‘Salaam Alaikum’ rings in our ears and hands are offered to be shaken. Curiosity or small talk never ends in a sales pitch, just good wishes or an insistence to pay for our drinks.

Morning coffee is followed by breakfast. After the disappointment of not finding falafel on our first evening in Wadi Halfa, it is abundant come morning: hot and freshly fried. We wolf it down with bread, beans, aubergine, rocket (seriously) and chilli paste. A far cry from soggy cereal, but a million times the meal.

By now we’ve broken the back of the morning and proceed to walk off our breakfast. In Africa you only walk to get somewhere, so walking for the fun of it doubtless seems strange to the locals – not least because our aimless rambles often had us unwittingly stumble across landfills, military bases and, on one occasion, a man taking a dump by the lake.

Only our first morning saunter proved to be productive, in that we chanced across Mr Mahir (overlanders take note: mashansharti@yahoo.com), our celebrity ferry fixer. In hindsight, chance probably had nothing to do with it – he doubtless spotted us from afar (we weren’t hard to miss) and came over to introduce himself. Without a second thought we handed him our passports. In any other town, in any other part of the world, this would have been the height of stupidity. But even if Mr Mahir was a smooth-talking con artist, it wouldn’t have been difficult to track him down in a town of 12 people*. Also, we were reassured by the fact he invited us to his house that afternoon.

Indeed, visiting Mr Mahir’s house became another aspect of our routine. Not only did we pop over to talk business (read: make sure we got the hell out of Wadi Halfa as soon as possible), but with Sudanese hospitality being what it is, we were also fed and invited to lounge in the shade of his walled garden. Here we were introduced to an Italian lady and her rather unique German boyfriend. The two of them had been in Wadi Halfa a week already (it turns out that the November 25 ferry had been cancelled too), but considering that they had been travelling for 12 years, what’s another week?

Once our urban activities had been exhausted we’d return to the desert. Here we’d wander listlessly wearing only our underwear until nightfall, whereupon we went to bed.

The repetition of our routine soon familiarised us with the townspeople: the policemen at the checkpoint, the ladies at the coffee stands, the market vendors hawking their wares, and anyone selling falafel: ‘Ah, the Gentleman Explorers!’ They’d say with a laugh and a wave. ‘Their exploits through eastern Africa are the stuff of legend. And now they’re here in our own little town – who would believe it?!’

Admittedly our Arabic is in its formative stages, but it certainly looked as though they were saying this.

The days wore on. And while we were buoyed by the friendliness of Wadi Halfa’s, how we longed for Egypt – how we longed for Egypt and its tolerance of vice, of alcohol, of Big Macs and all the other culturally progressive exports of Western society...

For our last two nights in Wadi Halfa, we treated ourselves to a stay at the Nile Hotel. The only indication that the Nile Hotel is indeed a hotel is the sign reading ‘Nile Hotel’ above the door. Otherwise it is much the same as every other building in town: it has walls, it has a roof and it has beds. But after seven nights in the desert, this was all we needed.

Our stay at the Nile afforded us the luxury of exploring the little town by night.

Of course, there wasn’t a great deal to explore, but we passed time sitting in cafes and smoking shisha, reminiscing about nights of near insanity in the desert and our heroic falafel consumption.

But something had changed. The sleepy little town that we’d become so fond of (I think it’s called Stockholm Syndrome) had a different air to it. Its pace had quickened. A sense of purpose pervaded. Wadi Halfa was preparing for a storm. But windows weren’t being shuttered nor hatchets locked down – this storm would take shape in clouds of North Face fleeces, sunburned faces, SLR cameras and questionable facial hair.

Previously the toast of the town, the Gentleman Explorers found themselves lost amidst two cancelled ferries’ worth of travellers, tourists and local traders. A week of patience would count for nothing and we prepared ourselves for a battle of elbows to secure best deck space. The hardest part of our escape from Wadi Halfa, it seemed, had yet to come.

*There are more than 12 people in Wadi Halfa. But only just.

The End of the Earth

2009-12-11T01:48:00.000-08:00

After travelling lightyears through the Nubian moonscape we arrived at Moon Base Wadi Halfa only to find it devoid of human life. We had the end of the earth all to ourselves. If we had been in space we could at least have put an end to it all by taking off our space suits and happily exploding. But we were very much on earth – the end of the earth, maybe – but earth nonetheless. And we were here to stay.

We drove to the port. There might be one boat, just one, that could take us to Egypt before December 9.

There was a boat. We negotiated a fee with the captain, a one-armed seadog who made a name for himself ferrying crooks from Miami to Cuba, and were soon sailing into the sunset.

No, this didn’t happen. There was no boat. No boat. No people. No money. No beer. And nine days.

Only one thing could save us now – falafel.

No falafel either.

Our sanity was saved by the one open restaurant in town. A restaurant run by cats. Well, perhaps not run by cats per se, but certainly overrun by cats. The manager was actually a friendly moustached human man with a big loud voice, which he utilised to instruct his three beautiful daughters (and his toothless mother) to prepare us dinner. Three beautiful daughters, you say? Yes, three fine young fillies that could well have made our nine-day stay in Wadi Halfa infinitely more interesting if it wasn’t for a technicality in Sharia Law that states that the busy hands of sweaty foreigners will be unequivocally lopped off if they were to be found in the vicinity of local talent. And that’s word for word from the Koran.

The flickering flames of our loins had been doused, but at least our bellies were full with an eclectic meal of macaroni, hummus and bread. And with this, we peeled off the cats and headed out to the desert.

We hadn’t camped since the dust storm in Amboseli in Kenya and it’s fair to say we were out of practice. Not so much out of practice in regards to putting up tents, but out of practice in the sense we’d lost the feel of camping – the feel of being separated from the elements by a thin piece of material. Ultimately, camping is just a real pain in the arse.

But being on a tight budget meant that we had no other choice than to reconnect with our inner Ray Mears. I would do this by sleeping in the open on the roof of the car while Davy and Giles shared the roof tent. This was a noble gesture, but it’s really not as romantic as it sounds. For one, I was with two other flatulent men, not a woman of loose morals. Secondly, it was freezing – another inconvenience considering my company for the evening. And last of all, it’s rather disconcerting waking up in a bedroom the size of – wait – that is the Nubian Desert.

I’m hoping that by night number nine I’ll have gotten used to it...

The Road to Wadi Halfa

2009-12-11T01:44:00.000-08:00

The road to Wadi Halfa isn’t so much a road but a dirt track linking the dusty villages that dot the banks of the Nile. But this is not the road that we take. A new road pours out of Dongola and we are swept along in the current. Straight and black, the road slices through endless grey. Occasionally the Nile fights its way back into view; the vegetation that clings to its banks slashes the horizon green. But for the most part: grey sands. Black rocks. Not even a lonely service station to break the monotony.

Miles and nothing. Miles of nothingness. Nothing but miles.

We hadn’t thought to refuel at Dongola and the endless road was making us nervous. We resolved to go the river to find fuel and turned off our slick tarmac path onto a coarse dirt road. We reached the river and then slowly followed it past mud-brick houses that watched us with empty eyes and howling black mouths. Where was everybody?

Suddenly, a mosque. A sudden splash of colour. Suddenly people.

We gestured to the fuel tank. Empty. A knowing laugh and then a man in the backseat alongside me. A pointing finger directed us to a goat pen, then into a mud hut with a tired leaf roof. A rusting fuel tank, a hose and a plastic jerry-can later, we had fuel and gave our thanks. We paid a token sum but had to decline tea. We ought to be going.

But to where exactly, we were unsure.

Time and Money

2009-12-11T01:35:00.000-08:00

It turned out that the game of football that we planned to settle Sudan’s differences with wasn’t going to be needed after all.

‘Everything in Darfur is fine!’ Cheerfully exclaimed our taxi driver. ‘The European press say there are problems, but there are not!’

Phew! And there we were thinking that something fishy was afoot in the south.

We were in Khartoum, weaving through traffic to find an ATM that would accept Visa or Mastercard. It didn’t occur to us that maybe the taxi driver was wrong and there were problems in Darfur – problems so big that the International Community had imposed sanctions on Sudan, meaning that the nearest place we could use Mastercard was in Egypt, a place we couldn’t get to because the bloody ferry had been bloody cancelled. Priceless.

Since we had no money to spend in Sudan, it was lucky we had prearranged lodgings befitting of a gentleman explorer – an en suite bedroom for us each, a washing machine, swimming pool and two 90-year-old gay tortoises (they were actually gay – I saw video footage. Don’t ask...)

No money + ridiculously comfortable accommodation + the Eid festival = not much of a reason to do anything productive whatsoever. However, at the behest of our venerable hostess Pinky (her real name, by the way), we did manage a field trip to see the pyramids. In terms of size, Sudan’s pyramids are but pimples in comparison to that of Egypt, but the fact that we got to peruse these pimples without being outnumbered and overwhelmed by a waddling army of luridly dressed tourists made the site all the more magnificent. With the exception of four other tourists and three jolly locals on camels, this little-visited ancient wonder belonged to us for one whole day.

Our evenings, meanwhile, were spent crashing the house parties of an assortment of Charity Idiots; known in some circles as NGO workers.

‘I work clearing mines. What do you do?’

‘I’m an out of work lifestyle journalist.’ And thanks for reminding me.

End of conversation.

I did feel slightly better about myself when someone told me that being an out of work lifestyle journalist was a more productive pastime than working for the UN. From what I gather, all that working for the UN consists of is: 1) Driving around in a great big Toyota Land Cruiser (the kind that have been overtaking us ever since we started this journey) and, 2) being paid lots of money for not doing much.

While I’m sure this isn’t entirely true, I choose to believe it is. It makes me feel better about myself. And I celebrated being better than the entire UN workforce by draining the Charity Idiots’ bar for every last drop of alcohol.

Other than seeing pyramids and making a nuisance of ourselves at expat garden parties, our stay in Khartoum was punctuated by one of the homo tortoises being run over by an armoured car. (Don’t worry, we laughed too.)*

A day after the tortoise had been announced dead, a second opinion diagnosed it alive. To make amends for chuckling at its demise, we helped carry the hulking great thing to a place where a vet could more easily poke at it. If this wasn’t heroic enough, we were commissioned to hold it steady so the vet could clean its wounds and administer all sorts of injections. We learned the following from this episode: 1) tortoises hiss, 2) they’re really wriggly, and 3) a badly cracked tortoise shell is disgusting. (I’ve never been one for gore.)

After six nights of clean clothes, saving tortoises and poolside paradise, we bid Pinky farewell and took our leave. But as we pulled out of comfort’s driveway and into Eid’s empty streets it dawned on us that, for the first time on our journey, we didn’t have a plan. We had all the time in the world, but we didn’t have a plan. We had as many days to reach Wadi Halfa (a 930km drive from Khartoum) as we did to get back to London from Egypt (a considerably longer drive). But not being able to use our cash cards on account of President Bashir’s more antisocial tendencies we could only spend 17 dollars a day.

Granted, 17 American dollars can go a long way in Sudan, but it is a modest amount for men of such advanced recreational tastes. And besides, the luxury of time without that of money is an unhappy predicament for any gentleman explorer. But we are not the sort of fellows who balk at such adversity and, like Montgomery before us, we ventured forth into the Nubian Desert to lose ourselves in the sands of time.
Or, less dramatically speaking, wait until the Wadi Halfa ferry arrived...

*Just to clarify, we didn’t ‘ha ha’ laugh, rather we laughed out of shock. It isn’t every day that you’re told an old gay tortoise has been squashed by an armoured car. Be assured, once we grasped the gravity of the situation, we were furrow-browed with sincerity.

Death and Falafel

2009-12-11T01:04:00.000-08:00

True to its Tolkein-esque name, Gonder in northern Ethiopia boasts a great fortress. That is to say, it used to boast a great fortress – now, the fortress lies largely in ruin, but it is still fun to climb on. For those whose interest in world heritage goes beyond simply using it as a climbing frame, Gonder is remarkable since it’s one of the few places in sub-Saharan Africa with architecture that precedes the shabby remnants of colonialism that we had grown so used to on our travels north. Built in the 17th century, Gonder was once the home of a great civilisation... but this is the most I can tell you – I was, after all, preoccupied my climbing. Sorry.

Cool ruins and Art Deco cafes (which weren't actually as cool we had hoped), Gonder had it all – apart from, it seems, people who could understand us. This isn’t to say they couldn’t speak English – they could, and very well at that – but they just could not, despite our best efforts to adopt the language of choice for Brits abroad (slow and loud), understand what we were saying.

‘These chips are cold.’

‘Birthday card?’

Never mind.

Cold chips and confusion aside, our stay in Gondar proved to be a pleasant conclusion to our Ethiopian escapade and, having conquered the whole country in just over two weeks, we were ready to sort out Sudan before heading home for Christmas. Easy.

But before putting down jumpers for goal posts and settling the squabble between the IDPA, SPLA (and whatever other angry acronyms there are in Sudan) with a kick around, we had to get into the damn country. Having already scurried after The Man Downstairs With The Computer for our Sudanese visa, we weren’t expecting to waltz over the border and be greeted with high fives, whoops and hollers. And we were right.

Our wait at the border took almost a full day, but considering we were expecting this at every border crossing, we took the delay in our stride. Besides, a chance encounter with two Land Rovers’ worth of Belgians coming the other way ensured time flew by. To offset the fact they had cooler cars (and knew a lot more about them) than we did, not to mention the fact they just looked cooler than us (not a pair of dry-fit trousers between them), we regaled them with the adventures that lay in our wake (Ah, the things we’ve seen...). In return, they supplied us with the name of a fixer for the Wadi Halfa ferry (the same guy who helped Renton from Trainspotting and his fat sidekick) and a fixer for the elusive Libya visa. I have no doubt as to who benefitted the most from the meeting...

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Sudan.

Before coming to Africa, I wrote about perceptions of the place: my perceptions and other people’s perceptions. I mention this since I remember the time I first told my Dad about the journey. Needless to say, my Dad was thoroughly unenthusiastic about it – he was a farmer, and if farmers knew one thing about Africa it’s that you automatically get AIDS and/or shot on arrival. Once he’d made this quite clear, he asked what route we’d be taking. And so I told him: Namibia (shot), South Africa (shot and AIDS), Botswana (AIDS)... But even though the Daily Mail had told my Dad everything he needed to know about Africa, I still thought it best not to tell him I was going to Sudan. Wait, I did tell him, but just said it in a loud cough. But in truth, I was scared of Sudan too. After all, their version of Gordon Brown had just been indicted by the ICC (not the cricket people, the other ones) and considering that Gordon Brown is, on the whole, much better behaved than the majority of the binge-drinking British public, what an earth should I expect from the Sudanese people?

We soon found out at our first police checkpoint. We were summoned out of the car, marched to the other side of the road, sat down, and given a cup of tea. We finished our tea and waited for the policeman to return, but he didn’t. He was busy elsewhere. He had simply wanted us to stop and have a cup of tea.

Hospitality is complemented by great food: Geradef, the first town we stayed at in Sudan, will be remembered forever more as The Place We Had Really Good Falafel. It could equally be remembered as The Place Where We Nearly Died, but falafel is a more cheery subject than death, so we’ll stick with the former.

‘Death’ might be a bit of an exaggeration, but our Land Rover, the minibus that careered out in front of us, and the contents of each would have doubtless been worse for wear had they collided. I don’t want to depict myself as Michael Knight (well, I did at the time), but once it was apparent that the minibus coming from our left to cross the main road was not going to stop (ie when it was in front of us), I sounded the (rubbish) horn, braked, then swerved. Realising then that I was going to plough over an old lady who was sitting cross-legged at the roadside (for what particular reason, I’ll never know), I swerved back onto the road, taking the car onto two wheels. For all Giles’s infuriating backseat driving, I’ll always thank him for advising me to let go of the steering wheel, a manoeuvre that allowed the car to regain traction. Two seconds and a hundred metres later, everyone was still alive, the car was back on four wheels, the idiot minibus driver was still running on schedule, and Davy immediately started smoking again*.

So, day two in Sudan: nearly deaded. But there was more in store for our hapless heroes...

Once we’d arrived in Wadi Medani and checked into possibly the campest hotel you’ll find in a strictly Muslim country – The Continental (pink, colonial, submarine-themed in parts) – Giles called our celebrity ferry fixer, Mr Mahir. Mr Mahir was most helpful, but regretted to inform us that our December 2 ferry had been cancelled two days previously because of some festival (which I later discovered to be Eid, Islam’s equivalent to Christmas, so shows what I know). The next ferry would be a week a later on December 9.

So we’d be in Sudan for another week. Okay, no problem... Well, no problem – other than the problem of us now one less week to cover around 6,000km.

Here’s a picture of our revised schedule as of November 17 (I’m too lazy to type it out).

As you may or may not be able to see from the photo, we should by all rights be leaving Cairo for Alexandria on December 9.

Now, here’s a picture of the revised itinerary as of November 22 (again, I’m too lazy to type it out. And it’s really not that interesting).

As you can see (or not), when we were meant to be on a fast-food fuelled journey to Alexandria, we’ll only just be hitting Egypt.

To put it yet another way (I’m labouring the point, I know), look at the below map of Africa.

Giles’s finger is where we’ll be on December 9. And we intend to be under my crotch by December 24. If this doesn’t give you an idea of how far we’ve got to go in just over two weeks nothing will. And we still haven’t got our Libya visas.

The race, my friends, is well and truly on.

*He didn’t really. He’s never smoked. Ever.

Ethiopia by Numbers

2009-12-11T00:55:00.000-08:00

Day 46 04.11.09
Marsabit (Kenya)-Moyale (A2, Kenya; 6, Ethiopia)
Accommodation: Um, can’t remember
Distance travelled: 166 miles

Day 47 05.11.09
Moyale-Dilla (6)
Accommodation: Peacock Hotel (8,000 Birr for a double)
Distance travelled: 270 miles

Day 48 06.11.09
Dilla-Addis (6, 3)
Accommodation: Ras Amba Hotel (USD 90 for a triple)
Distance travelled: 230 miles

Day 49 07.11.09
Rest day (changed accommodation to Ebenezer Guesthouse – USD 70 for a triple)

Day 50 08.11.09
Rest day

Day 51 09.11.09
Rest day

Day 52 10.11.09
Rest day

Day 53 11.11.09
Rest day

Day 54 12.11.09
Addis-Kembolcha (1)
Accommodation: Tekele Hotel (USD 16)
Distance travelled: 247 miles

Day 55 13.11.09
Kembolcha-Lalibela (1)
Accommodation: Asheten (150 Birr for triple matress)
Distance travelled: 210 miles

Day 56 14.11.09
Rest day

Day 57 15.11.09
Lalibela-Mekeleb(115/79)
Accommodation: Castle Hotel (USD 40 for two doubles)
Distance travelled: 228 miles

Day 58 16.11.09
Mekele-Aksum (102, 77, 72)
Accommodation: Remhai Hotel (504 Birr for a double)
Distance travelled: 177 miles

Day 59 17.11.09
Rest day

Day 60 18.11.09
Aksum-Debark (3)
Accommodation: Um, can’t remember
Distance travelled: 240 miles

Day 61 19.11.09
Debark-Gonder (3)
Accommodation: Terahra (?) (96 Birr for a grubby single each)
Distance travelled: 65 miles

Day 62 20.11.09
Rest day (changed accommodation to Quara [sic], which cost 1,113 Birr for a triple)

Day 63 21.11.09
Gonder-Geradef (83, 67)
Accommodation: Um, can’t remember
Distance travelled: Unrecorded

Total distance travelled: Just over 2,008 miles

Questions of Momentum and Other Such Musings (a long one)

2009-11-24T22:24:00.000-08:00

Where to start?

Where. To. Start?

With my problems, I suppose. Not all of my problems – we’d be here forever – no, for now, we’ll focus on just one problem: momentum. Or lack thereof.

We haven’t lost momentum in the literal sense, but I can’t help feel that the more we travel and the more we see, the more difficult it becomes to recount our feats of derring-do without marching in time to the banal beat of We did this... Then we did this... And then we did this.

You see, the more we travel, the greater the danger of us becoming desensitised to our experiences. Perhaps this is what I mean when I say that we’re losing our momentum. On a journey as long and as exhausting as this, it’s easy to lose sight of the bigger picture and instead become preoccupied with sequential activities such as waking up, getting up, complaining about one another’s flatulence, getting dressed, eating breakfast, getting in the car, and driving. And driving and driving and driving.

And then doing it all over again.

Like everyone else, everywhere else, we have a routine. And, like everyone else, everywhere else, our routine can become repetitive. In this respect there’s nothing extraordinary about what we’re doing – other than the fact that we’re doing it with an extraordinary backdrop. Lately, I’ve had to remind myself of this fact, lest I become slovenly in my appreciation for our undertakings.

Perhaps my momentum migraine has been accentuated by the most recent chapter of our travels – the 1,400km loop we’ve embarked upon around northern Ethiopia. While the north of the country is arguably one of the most stunning places on the planet, exploring it has altered the nature of our journey in that we’re ‘travelling for the sake of travelling’ rather than to get from A to B. This isn’t too much of a problem – we’ve visited some quite incredible places – but day after day of negotiating mountain passes is slow work, and after spending large amounts of time to cover relatively small distances, we’re ready to start clocking up miles.

Be assured I’m not lamenting our travels through northern Ethiopia, not in the slightest, I’m simply sharing a few of my backseat contemplations. And now that I have, we shall, without further ado, move seamlessly from matters of the mind to the rigours of the road...

We did this... Then we did this... And then...

The Attic of Africa is sagging under the weight of its untold treasures (actually, said treasures have been extensively told of – just read any Ethiopia guidebook) from ancient rock-hewn churches to a cliff-top men-only monastery to the (purported) resting place of the Arc of the Covenant. If ever the three of us were going to realise our Indiana Jones-esque fantasies, not to mention live up to our self-appointed ‘Gentleman Explorer’ mantles, it was going to be here.

The thing is, I doubt very much that gentleman explorers of yore (or Dr Jones for that matter) had to negotiate a fee for a tour guide, let alone have to wait for portly, greying German tourists to get out of the way before taking a photo. Nonetheless, Lalibela and its 13 fantastically preserved ancient churches are quite incredible to behold. Plus, looking around them involved lots of climbing over rocks and scurrying through tunnels, which was really fun.

While I appreciate that Lalibela holds huge cultural, historical and religious significance, I couldn’t shake the image of some king (who he was, I forget) telling his minions that he wanted a bunch of churches carved out of the ground. Seriously, any chance? Building a normal church back in the day must have been difficult enough for your average slave, but to carve 13 out of the ground...

Silent, ancient and cool, Lalibela’s churches are a world apart from the modern-day mayhem, noise and burn of the town’s weekend market. After a morning of ancient wonder, we blinkingly stepped into the contemporary reality of the latter, our senses immediately assaulted by the earthy stench of livestock, colour-saturated spices, shouts of the sellers, and bleats of the sold. We had travelled thousands of years in less than a kilometre.

Time travel resumed that very next morning, heading north to Aksum via the cliff-top monastery Debre Damo. Monasteries are pretty weird places at the best of times, not least when they’re perched on the top of a cliff and are accessible only by rope. Since Debre Damo is still a ‘working’ monastery (excuse the terminology) the fairer sex are not allowed visit – even livestock has to be of the male variety to discourage frisky monks. When we arrived, two (female) American tourists sat dejectedly at the foot of the cliff, though they probably felt better about not being able to visit the summit after watching me scream, splutter and sob my way up 15 metres of sheer cliff face.

The terrifying climb did at least afford a great view of the surrounding mountains, though once we were up we were subjected to a number of previously undisclosed charges for entering the various buildings and paying a goblin-like man to open up what we were told was a very old book. Since the people squeezing us for all the Birr we were good for were the very same people responsible for lowering us safely back down to the ground, we had no other choice but to pay.

While we managed not to part with as much capital as was asked of us, we paid enough to ensure our descent from the monastery resulted in nothing more serious than a few rope burns, and after refusing to give our ‘guide’ a lift (he hadn’t exactly ingratiated himself to us by saying that other tourists – the portly Germans, I imagine – paid him twice as much as we had), we sped off – shaking fists and all – to Aksum.

As we’ve already established, Aksum is said to house the Arc of the Covenant, but only people from Aksum say this and even then they don’t say it particularly whole-heartedly. I’m not even sure what the Arc of the Covenant is (I’m not sure anyone does really) but I do know it’s a big deal, and just the kind of thing that would be right up Indiana Jones’s street. But while we harboured hopes of catching a glimpse at the Arc via battling Nazis and meeting a thousand-year old Crusader, we were instead shouted at by a man in a tracksuit for taking photos where we shouldn’t have been. We asked if it was for religious reasons. He said it was because we hadn’t been paid him any money.

Now, call me cynical, but considering that the Arc of the Covenant is one of the most important religious artefacts there is, wouldn’t you have more than just an angry man in a tracksuit guarding the chapel in which it’s kept? Obviously not. Suspicions were further raised by the fact that even if you do pay money to the angry man in the tracksuit, you’re still not allowed to see the Arc. This privilege is reserved for especially anointed priests, who I imagine have similar tastes in sports leisurewear as our shouty nemesis.

Aside from its Arcs, obelisks and casually dressed security guards, Aksum will remain memorable for the fact that it was here where we discovered our finely honed plans may have to undergo major surgery. It’s probably our own fault for leaving as late as we have, but it turns out that our Libya ‘fixer’ (the bloke who arranges visa and passage through the country) wasn’t interested in helping us. I say ‘wasn’t interested’ but judging by his nonsensical reply (this said, he did manage to convey that he’s not going to help us), it’s more likely he just couldn’t understand our email. If we’re unable to find another fixer and get a Libya visa, our journey home could well take a drastic detour, which would see us drive through the Middle East and the entire length of Europe. To put it another way: over a quarter of the distance that we’ve already travelled... in about 17 days.

Momentum we wanted, terminal velocity we got...

Addis, Addis! (It’s a Hell of a Town)

2009-11-20T03:09:00.000-08:00

The old travelling adage – cities equals bad, countryside equals good – could well be applied to our journey. Other than Cape Town (made so comfortable thanks to the hospitality of the Cordoles) and Aladdin-esque Stone Town (which doesn't really count as a city) we’ve kept our urban antics to a minimum, contenting ourselves instead with Africa’s bucolic offerings.

When it came to Addis, however, we didn’t have any other choice but to spend six nights there.

Our prolonged stay in the capital owed itself to our Sudanese ambitions. As we’d anticipated, attaining a visa proved to be a prolonged process; the delay was largely the fault of 'the man downstairs with the computer'. The Man With The Computer was the only person who could access the invitation letter sent for us by the British embassy in Khartoum, but his woeful work ethic meant that every time we visited the embassy he wasn’t in the office. After numerous visits to the cramped corrugated-iron hut that is the Sudanese embassy, and Giles running up a phone bill tantamount to Ethiopia’s GDP, we got our visa. A one-month work visa...

Not that we lamented having to stay for so long, mind you. Addis is a fantastic city. For our six-day stay we were happy just wandering its chaotic yet safe streets and drink in the abundant aesthetic charm – most of which, it has to be said, belongs to the city’s female population.

Fantastic.

Coffee vs Infrastructure

2009-11-20T02:56:00.000-08:00

We were thrown a lifeline of smooth tarmac just before Ethiopia, which we climbed gratefully all the way up to the border. Though bandits, brigands and bumps were long behind us, we faced fresh adversity in the form of a belligerent border guard who took it upon himself to gut the car of its contents. When he was satisfied that we weren’t carrying kilos of cocaine and, more to the point, weren’t going to part with a bribe, he sent us on our way.

The next morning we continued to skate along slick black roads towards Addis. While we had managed to replace the shock, the grind of the rear axle still persisted. Spirits were high regardless. We had endured two days of driving hell and now found ourselves in heaven. Children sprang onto the roadside shouting, smiling, waving. We had arrived in Ethiopia victorious – a three-man liberating army. We drove, we waved, we returned wide grins.

We loved Ethiopia.

Since a way to a man’s heart is, as they say, through his belly, our love affair with Ethiopia was partially fuelled by its cuisine. On our first night in the country we asked the waiter of the hotel restaurant what was good.
‘Enjera and roast meat,’ came the reply. ‘I promise you you’ll like it.’
And like it we did.

Enjera, a spongy sort of pancake made from teff flour, is the staple dish in Ethiopia. Conveniently doubling as disposable (edible) cutlery, the bread is used by diners to scoop up whatever sauce or meat it is served with. I certainly appreciated the unique tang and texture of enjera, but I concede that after a few meals I began to tire of the dish.

This, however, cannot be said for the coffee. Coffee has been one of our greatest disappointments on the journey so far. Considering that Africa produces some of the world’s finest coffee beans, it’s near impossible to order anything but instant Nescafe in any restaurant or cafe. Happily, here in Ethiopia, along with pasta and pretty bridges, coffee is one of the better legacies of fascism. Mussolini’s men may have been pretty rubbish colonists, but they did at least spend their five-year tenure in the country ensuring that a barista was installed in every cafe and restaurant.

Years after the Italians' short-lived Ethiopian escapade, the Chinese have proven themselves far more capable modern-day Romans by building an impressive network of roads throughout the country. Ethiopia is Africa’s biggest beneficiary of Chinese investment and, if the roads are anything to go by, it shows.

Aside from the occasional pothole here and there, our advance on Addis was punctuated by an overnight stopover in Dilla. There’s nothing particularly bad about Dilla, other than the Peacock Hotel, which so happened to be the establishment I checked us into.

In a rare administrational error on Giles and Davy’s part, I somehow found myself responsible for finding accommodation. Since Peacock was the cheapest choice, it (in my mind) was the most logical option. But as daylight dwindled, Peacock devolved from grubby hotel to a Petri dish of prostitution. Returning to our room from dinner, we found a lady sat expectantly by our door. We shuffled shyly into our room and closed the door on her.

In hindsight, I’m sure her company would have been preferable to the puppy-sized cockroaches that snuggled up to us throughout the course of the night.

We left the Peacock at first light. And I was dishonourably discharged from ever finding us accommodation again.

Kenya by Numbers

2009-11-10T07:06:00.000-08:00

Day 36 25.10.09
Arusha-Namanga (A104)
Accommodation:
Distance travelled: 70 miles

Day 37 26.10.09
Namanga-Amboseli National Park (123)
Accommodation: Amboseli Community Campsite (KSH 5,000 for camping)
Distance travelled: 37 miles

Day 38 27.10.09
Amboseli-Mombasa (207, 94, 146)
Accommodation: Castle Royal Hotel (USD 75 for a triple room)
Distance travelled: 287 miles

Day 39 28.10.09
Mombasa-Diani (A14)
Accommodation: Stilts (KSH 900 for a triple room)
Distance travelled: 36 miles

Day 40 29.10.09
Rest Day

Day 41 30.10.09
Rest Day

Day 42 31.10.09
Diani-Nairobi (A14, A109)
Accommodation: Olive Garden (USD 144 for two rooms)
Distance travelled: 361 miles

Day 43 01.11.09
Nairobi
Accommodation: Upperhill Campsite (KSH 1,500 per person)

Day 44 02.11.09
Nairobi-Isiolo (A2)
Accommodation: Bomen Hotel (KSH 3,000 for a triple room)
Distance travelled: 195 miles

Day 45 03.11.09
Isiolo-Marsabit (A2)
Accommodation: Jey Jey Centre (KSH 750 for a triple room)
Distance travelled: 165 miles

Total distance travelled: 1,151

Shock Horror

2009-11-09T07:41:00.000-08:00

It’s funny how the world works. Having completed one of the most dangerous roads we’re likely to take, we arrived in a town full of the friendliest people we’re likely to meet.

Everyone we spoke to in Marsabit was relaxed, friendly and thoroughly interested in what we were doing. And since the town is defined by transience, its people didn’t seem to think that we were utterly insane for wanting to get back to London by car (many Africans we’d met along the way did). Travelling was in their blood.

Most people had lived in the town all their lives, making a living for themselves at one of the town’s two fuel stations, as drivers, or with local missions. They told us more tales of the trouble that blighted the Isiolo-Marsabit road – there had been trouble for the past four days; the worst of which resulted in a driver being seriously wounded from a shot to the face and his tan boy (a trucking equivalent of a cabin boy) blinded in one eye. The only happy aspect of this story is that we heard it after we’d completed the stretch.

Better news lay ahead. Though the road to the Ethiopian border was in similar disrepair to that which we’d taken, it bore no such security concerns. With this in mind, we spent the rest of our afternoon in Marsabit occupying ourselves with refuelling and repacking the car, and delivering a letter to a local pastor on behalf of the manager of the Bomen Hotel. Just as we were beginning to think our day’s duties were done, a car-full of Norwegian missionaries checked into the same hotel as us.

It’s long been habitual for us to strike up conversation with anyone driving a 4x4 – travel chit-chat concerning roads, routes and cars (we feign knowledge of the latter in the hope that people mistake us for real men). We thus got talking to the missionaries who, being good Christian folk (as missionaries so often are), offered us the services of their driver-cum-mechanic.

Andrew, as was his name, was a qualified aeronautic engineer (he couldn’t find a job in his chosen profession) who knew his stuff. But it didn’t need an expert to tell us that we were long overdue an oil change (we’d travelled over 6,000 without giving it a second thought. Oops). His disbelieving tuts and shakes of the head as he heard our engine stutter embarrassed us into action and we spent the rest of our daylight hours in search of decent oil – a difficult task given Marsabit’s limited resources.

While our search that evening proved fruitless, we managed to locate quality oil the next morning from the Shell garage. To his credit, the manager kindly informed us not to use his staff for the oil change, since they were useless. Instead, he pointed us in the direction of Mike the Mechanic, the best mechanic in town.

Not that we’d have known any better, but Mike the Mechanic appeared to know his stuff. He changed our oil quickly and competently, as well as being good enough to point out that the rubbers of our shock absorbers had worn away. Since the good people of Foley had equipped us with plenty of spares, we had Mike the Mechanic change these too. He did just this and, in the process, noticed that the brake disc cover on the rear left wheel was loose. Our good ship was in worse shape than we had thought. Mike the Mechanic told us that a loose cover would do more harm than good and suggested that he remove it and we buy a replacement in Addis.

Before we knew it, we were back on the road with new oil coursing through our engine, new shock rubbers and minus one brake disc cover.

Mike the Mechanic looked as though he knew what he was doing. Even if he didn’t, we probably wouldn’t have known, but we liked the cut of his jib. He will therefore be remembered favourably in the annals of this blog and not, in any way, be held responsible for the rear right shock that pinged out of place two hours later.

The sorry shock was removed and we limped forward, wincing every time a pothole jumped up and bit the underbelly of our wounded steed. Matters were made worse when we collided with a wall of rain. The road melted away and began to explode around the car in bright plumes of orange.

It appeared that if we wanted to reach Ethiopia, we would have to drive through a Tango advert first.

The Road Less Travelled

2009-11-09T07:32:00.000-08:00

Sticking with movie analogies: remember that scene in ‘Star Wars: a New Hope’ where Obi Wan, Luke and the two droids head to Mos Eisley Space Port to find a ship to take them to some galaxy... far, far away? No? Well, the point I’m trying to make is that Isiolo is the earthling equivalent of Mos Eisley – a final bastion of civilisation before lifting off into the unknown.

This outpost town is alive with trucks, tradesmen, missionaries and military patrols, NGOs and the occasional overlander – colourful characters clad in suitably colourful clothing, from birkas to replica football shirts to camouflage to tribal colours to dry-fit T-shirts...

We dived into this glorious collage of chaos, stocking up on supplies, refuelling the car, and enquiring as to the current security situation on the notorious Isiolo-Marsabit stretch. This involved a visit to the local police station – a ramshackle assortment of corrugated iron huts, inhabited by listless characters wearing ill-fitting fatigues and wielding a frightening array of weaponry.

We spoke to what looked to be the chief of police (at least he was the closest thing we could find – he had a desk, pens and a pad of paper) and were told that if we couldn’t tag onto a convoy the next morning we should come back to arrange an armed escort. With this, we returned to the hotel for dinner, a few beers to celebrate a certain Mr Young’s 29th birthday, and an early night.

Our 5am start looked to be too late. On arrival at the petrol station – the rendezvous point for vehicles heading north – we discovered that the day’s convoy had left at 4am. Rather than have a policeboy with an M16 ‘protect’ us from the back seat (which is, after all, strictly reserved for exotic European women and Masai) we elected to wait at a checkpoint and hope that more vehicles would pass through the course of the day.

After an hour or so, a Defender crammed with six local NGO workers hurtled towards us. With the help of the checkpoint guard, we flagged it down and inundated its occupants with questions as to their destination.

‘Marsabit,’ came the answer.

‘And the road – is it safe?’

‘If you hadn’t flagged us down we’d be on it now.’

It transpired that the six inhabitants of the Land Rover made the Isiolo-Marsabit journey on a regular basis and were willing to have us follow – providing we could keep up. At this, they sped off and we gave chase.

Thanks to 70km of newly laid tarmac, proceedings were smooth and speedy to begin with, but the road soon disintegrated into tyre-shredding disrepair, making the pursuit of our guide all the more difficult. We slid through sand, grinded over sharp rocks and into deep potholes; all the while keeping an eye out for suspect characters lurking on the roadside. There were a few nervous moments when men in dubious uniforms would rush up to the side of the road and beckoned us to stop.

Needless to say, we didn’t.

Struggling to keep on the scent of the dust trail left for us by our leaders, we were relieved to catch up with them at a small village where they’d stopped for a break. We followed them into a small concrete hut where dirty white-washed walls were adorned with football posters and hand-drawn representations of the Arsenal, Liverpool, Chelsea and Man Utd crests. Bizarrely, the words ‘We photocopy chapatti and mend eggs’ was scrawled in bold letters above a small service window to a small, dark kitchen.

‘This is the halfway point. It’s tradition to stop here for lunch.’

‘But it’s not lunchtime yet.’

‘No, but you never know if you’ll make it to Marsabit for lunch.’

We had suddenly lost our appetites.

After everyone had finished their early lunch of photocopied chapattis and mended eggs (which tasted suspiciously like regular chapatti and eggs), we resumed our rattle along the road. We were more relaxed now – our escorts assured us that the worst of the road had passed and, what’s more, all but one of the armed tribesmen cheerfully waved at us. A good sign, we thought.

Two bumpy hours later, our guide pulled into another village, popped his head out of the window and told us to proceed.

‘The road is safe now. We’ll catch you up,’ he assured.

Reluctantly taking his word for it, we continued to Marsabit...

Gentleman Explorers Sally Forth

2009-11-09T07:26:00.000-08:00

We’ve all seen them, you know, the films where a group of young, good-looking (guilty as charged), chancers head off on their dream holiday or into the unknown or something along those lines; and while they’re having a laugh and a half, a shadow lurks... foreboding looms... unbearable tension builds... Then everything goes rather wrong. ‘Tits up’, if you will.

Now be assured that metaphorical mammaries have not ascended, I simply allude to the above scenario since the three of us have been rather surprised – pleasantly so – by how smoothly our journey has gone thus far. So, are we in the same situation as those hapless protagonists populating so many formulaic Hollywood horror pics? Does disaster await us around the next corner? I think not, but if there was ever going to be a tragic turning point to our tale, it would lie north of Nairobi.

There’s a stretch of road beyond the Kenyan capital infamous for bandits, brigands and assortment of scallywags hell-bent on making mischief for humble travellers such as our good selves. If this wasn’t troubling enough, it appeared that negotiating a safe passage through Nairobi wouldn’t be as straight forward as we first thought. Our friend Natalie, who has lived there for the past two years, warned us of a recent spate of organ robberies – organs of the internal variety; not the wind instrument so often found in places of Christian worship. Apparently, a number of people had been drugged and kidnapped, only to wake up with a missing kidney. If they were lucky...

Happily, we managed to survive Nairobi with all our organs intact – save for a sore liver and a few less braincells – more the fault of rip-roaring revelry than a rogue surgeon.

Tanzania by Numbers

2009-11-09T07:08:00.000-08:00

Day 25 14.10.09
Kande Beach (Malawi)-Matema (M1)
Accommodation: Matema Lakeshore Resort
Distance travelled: 273 miles

Day 26 15.10.09
Matema-Iringa (A7)
Accommodation: Baobab Campsite (USD 6 per person)
Distance travelled: 393 miles

Day 27 16.10.09
Iringa-Dar es Salaam (T2, A104, A7)
Dar es Salaam-Stone Town, Zanzibar (by ferry, USD 35)
Accommodation: Coco de Mer (USD 40 for triple room)
Distance travelled (Iringa-Dar es Salaam by car): 242 miles

Day 28 17.10.09
Stone Town-Paje Beach (by bus)
Accommodation: Kakumzi (USD 60 for a triple room)

Day 29 18.10.09
Rest day

Day 30 19.10.09
Rest day

Day 31 20.10.09
Rest day

Day 32 21.10.09
Paje Beach-Stone Town
Accommodation: 236 Harumzi (undisclosed fee – Giles’s treat)

Day 33 22.10.09
Stone Town-Dar es Salaam (by ferry; USD 40)
Accommodation: Jambo Inn (USD 40 for a triple room)

Day 34 23.10.09
Dar es Salaam-Moshi (A7, A14, B1)
Accommodation: Kindoroko Hotel
Distance travelled: 373 miles

Day 35 24.10.09
Moshi-Arusha (A23)
Accommodation: Masai Campsite (USD 5 per person for camping)
Distance travelled: 68 miles

Total distance (by car): 1,349 miles

Ode to Zanzibar/Dust, Drought and a Masai Called John

2009-11-01T03:43:00.001-08:00

‘Oh Zanzibar, beautiful Zanzibar, lo how you betrayed us. Six nights of sweet slumber beside your silver shores and we three gentleman explorers have been robbed of all daring and decision. You hypnotised with turquoise Indian Ocean eyes and we did not – could not! – resist as you sheared off our manly mains of wanderlust. The vice of snorkelling, sarongs, and silly little wooden carvings (‘We give you cheap price’), replaced the virtues of tents, toll roads and to-do lists. Palates perverted by burgers now wretch at ration packs, and hitherto roll-matt hardened hides have been softened by your gentle quilts and comfortable cots.’
– Oliver’s Odyssey, XV

Zanzibar was a psychological speed bump that proved difficult getting over. Our time on the island felt as though our travels were drawing to a close, but in reality we weren’t even a third of the way through our journey.

Staring out across the turquoise waters, Davy summed up this sentiment when he mumbled through a cloud of contemplation: ‘Where do we go from here?’ And, after a thoughtful draw on his cigarette: ‘Drive another 11,000 miles, I suppose.’

‘Back to rain and unemployment,’ I heard myself mutter.

Driving 11,000 miles isn’t easy when you’re not in the right mindset – something that wasn’t helped by the disappointment of Arusha and the game parks we had hoped to visit from there (not to mention a brief but vicious bout of amoebic dysentery suffered by the expedition scribe). Our difficulty in becoming reacclimatised with the road was perhaps also a testament to just how varied and diverse the cultural and physical landscape of Africa is. Our journey to the Kenyan border, for example, took us from island paradise Zanzibar to sticky-streeted Dar es Salaam to mountainous Moshi in three short days – a lot to take in for three sun-kissed travellers.

But we were buoyed by our trouble-free entry into Kenya, and further still by the news that entry into Amboseli National Park was a pittance in comparison to its Tanzanian equivalents (for the record: USD 60 per person, KSH 300 for the car). What’s more, while the drive from Namanga (on the Kenyan border) to Amboseli was mercifully short, it was rugged enough to help shake us out of our beach-induced haze.

A morning at Amboseli further lifted spirits. In refreshing contrast to the two parks that we’ve previously visited (Ockavango Delta and South Luangwa) it boasts expansive plains and great visibility – a diet Serengeti, if you will. Set to the backdrop of Kilimanjaro, game is densely packed – within 30 minutes we were parked alongside two enormous lions.

Feeling well satisfied with our morning’s achievements (I’d also like to mention that I greased the prop shafts before we set off – a most manly accomplishment) we joined a sea of bobbing grey heads at the Serena Lodge for lunch. In today’s economic climate it seems that the only people frequenting Africa’s safari parks are retired with money stashed under the bed (not in an Icelandic bank account).

Once lunch was finished, Davy and I returned to the park while Giles elected to remain at the Serena for a facial. This, sadly, is not a joke.

Five minutes into the drive and it became painfully obvious that Giles had made the right decision – though perhaps not the heterosexual one. The dirty brown that had been lurking on the horizon with intent descended upon us, engulfing the car and reducing visibility to just beyond the bonnet. Our afternoon game drive had been swallowed up by the elements and the only wildlife we caught glimpse of was long dead – grinning and eyeless.

After an hour or so, we managed to find our way back to Serena, collect Giles’s glowing visage and head back into the dust and death in search of our campsite. Proceedings weren’t as easy as before, largely because the road was poorly marked and the air was still thick with dancing dirt. Within ten minutes, we were good and lost.

Male + car = obstinate refusal to ask for directions – that’s a given – but when we found ourselves surrounded by spear-brandishing Masai, it appeared we had no choice. For rhetoric’s sake, I’d like to say that they appeared from nowhere. In reality, they emerged from a nearby village that we’d stopped at. After politely refusing everything from curios to a guided tour of the village, we finally conceded we were lost and accepted a young Masai’s offer to guide us to the campsite. Before I knew it, I was sat in the back next to John the Masai.

‘John?’

‘Yes, John.’

Our brief journey with John provided an insight into modern Masai life. Not only do Masai have names like John, but it seems that nowadays livelihoods are largely dependent on tourism since their herds have been depleted by drought (John’s family lost 160 cows in three years). The drought also explained the countless carcasses strewn across Amboseli, and indeed the size of the lions we saw – hungry herbivores are easier to hunt.

What I initially thought to be a fall from grace for Masai to work in hotels or dance for tourists, I now see as testament to their tenacity. No longer are they the warrior race from days of yore, but they have nonetheless managed to preserve a great deal of their traditions and culture, while being savvy enough to adapt to changing and testing times.

We said our goodbyes and John ghosted away into the storm. Tents were pitched and water was heated. Sand swirled and spat against the tent while we three gentleman explorers huddled over steaming ration packs in the flicker of a temperamental lantern.

Zanzibar was long behind us, but solace was taken in the promise of adventure on the road ahead.

Catching Up

2009-10-29T00:18:00.000-07:00

I’m not going to dwell on our six nights in Zanzibar. They were amazing – one of the highlights so far – but there’s only so much that can be said about slowly baking yourself on pristine beaches. Besides, a combination of woeful disorganisation and a dearth of internet access has seen me fall behind on my postings, and it’s high time I caught up.

Other than being a welcome rest stop and a break from the camping – which is becoming an increasing chore - our stay in Zanzibar was significant since it was here we agreed not to head west, then up through Rwanda and Uganda.

It was a difficult decision to come by, especially since all three of us wanted to see both countries, but in terms of logistics and finance, it made sense. Not only would travelling north via Uganda and Rwanda mean purchasing two more visas, it would ultimately mean more days on the road; ergo more money spent on fuel and less time to actually stop and see places.

We instead resolved to content ourselves with Tanzania’s epic landscapes, through which we’d travel to reach Kenya. And so, after six sun-soaked days, we three gentleman explorers returned to the mainland in search of new adventure.

We negotiated the choppy stretch between Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam, and were soon reunited with our steed, which had been left with a colleague of Giles’s in Dar.

After a night holed up in a stained shoebox of a hostel in the Tanzanian capital, we set course for Moshi, a small town at the foot Kilimanjaro and the launch pad for expeditions up the world’s fifth tallest mountain. Moshi proved to be wholly pleasant place, our only regret being that we hadn’t enough capital to climb Kili (USD 1,500). Having it as a backdrop as we took morning coffee proved a suitable, less tiring substitute.

Next stop: Arusha, officially the halfway point between Cape and Cairo (our halfway point is in fact Addis) and also, in our humble opinion, officially the worst place we’ve visited thus far. The fact we arrived just after midday on a Saturday didn’t help – the tourist information centre was closed until Monday – and thus our every attempt to find affordable access to the Serengeti and Ngorongoro was effectively dashed. Proceedings were further hindered by the touts and salesman who shadowed and swarmed until we lost our resolve, bundled into a taxi, and retreated back to the camp.

Even the hotels offering their own safari packages proved to be of little help:

‘It says you do safaris. How much?’

‘This is the toilet.’

‘Yes, thank you, but we were wondering about SAFARI.’

‘Kitchen?’

‘Never mind.’

Shuttered shops and tireless touts aside, we lost faith in Arusha ‘The Gateway to the Serengeti’ simply because entrance fees to the nearby national parks far exceeded our modest means. To drive our car into the Ngorongoro crater, for example, cost USD 300, plus USD 50 per person, plus a further USD 30 for camping.

Thank you, but we’ll try our luck in Kenya. And so we did...

My First Masai

2009-10-29T00:13:00.000-07:00

You can’t miss a Masai. For one, they wear robes while everyone else in Africa seems to wear replica Arsenal shirts (really, they do). Then there’s the small matter of the killing stick – a club carved from the knot of a tree, used for, well, killing things. At least it used to be. While I doubt many Masai use said sticks for killing anymore, they still brandish them wherever they go. Even a modern-day Masai holding down a modern-day job – dressed in overalls and working on the side of the road – will have his killing stick close at hand. After all, it’s his birthright. It’s his identity.

I saw my first Masai on the road between Matema and Kisolonza. Just as the countless roadworks and police checkpoints seemed to have vanished, there he was, ambling along.

I’m sure he had a place to go and a time to be there by, but he looked happy just ambling. By all accounts, my first Masai had ambled quite far south – further than a Masai would usually amble, but given that the Masai have free passage between Tanzania and Kenya, I suppose he could amble as far as he chuffing well wanted.

Seeing my first Masai was all well and good, but sinking beer with three of them later that same day, was something else altogether.

Our advance to Dar es Salaam had been interrupted by nightfall, inducing us to seek shelter and sustenance at Baobab Campsite. No sooner had we taken dinner, did we strike up conversation with a friendly, sad-eyed Englishman who we discovered to be the co-proprietor. After the requisite Getting To Know You pleasantries, he suggested we retire to the campfire. And so we did.

We found the three Masai sat in silence, staring into the flames. Like many Masai, they had lost their herds and traditional grazing grounds to the irresistible advance of modernity, and had subsequently taken jobs as the camp’s security. In return they received payment and free reign of Baobab’s extensive grounds.

At this juncture, it’s worth mentioning that it was we three gentleman explorers who were sinking the lagers – the Masai were happy just to sit there, watch, stoke the fire and occasionally fiddle with our torches (this is not a metaphor, I assure you). But the point remains: we were in the company of three Masai warriors, and real Masai warriors at that.

My crass lapse into italics is intended to emphasise the fact that the Masai we chanced upon at the Baobab Campsite (our modest lodgings for that evening) were quite authentic – not the kind that loaf in Stone Town’s narrow streets or clutter Zanzibar’s white beaches (think Stetsons, sunglasses and spears) – but Masai who came of age by killing a lion.

A real lion.

Since lions are pretty integral to Tanzania’s economy (tourism) the Masai aren’t really allowed to go around killing them anymore. However, two of the three Masai we met at the Baobab Campsite (they worked there as security) had killed a lion in a coming of age rite of passage.

Now, other than not being able to grunt a syllable of Ma, the Masai’s native language, striking up conversation with three chaps brandishing spears is a rather daunting prospect. However, the sweet elixir of social interaction – beer – soon spurred us into action. And, with the aid of a translator, we went about verifying exactly how a 15-year-old Masai boy can kill a lion.

To paraphrase the first answer we got: Under the guidance of their chief, the Masai boys will surround the lion and jump in unison (what this is meant to achieve, I don’t know, but it’s what they do, so I’m telling you). The chief then picks one of the boys who will then kill the lion.

‘Right. But how do you actually kill it?’

‘You take a stick that is sharp at both ends,’ came answer. ‘Then wrap cloth around your hand. Then put your hand in the lion’s mouth. It will bite down on the stick. Then you kill the lion. It’s really very easy.’

Ah, yes. The old sharp stick trick. Of course.

‘Is that the spear you killed the lion with?’ We asked hopefully, pointing to the spear planted in the soil next to the Masai. The translator echoed our question in an indiscernible tongue.

‘Yes.’

Cool.

We sat in awed silence. Red embers faded to black. Smoke danced around the remains. A surreal soundtrack of Coldplay’s ‘The Scientist’ played somewhere in the distance.

NB Apologies for the lack of photos - the Masai believe that cameras steal their soul, so I wasn't going to risk snapping a man wielding a very sharp spear...

The Bad Road

2009-10-29T00:06:00.000-07:00

The Bad Road isn’t determined by the quality of its tarmac or by the number of its potholes, but by what is travelling on it and the manner in which it is travelling.

The road to Dar es Salaam is a bad road.

Imagine, if you will, an episode of ‘Wacky Races’ but with a cast consisting entirely of Dick Dastardly duplicates – no Penelope, just Dick – and you begin to get an idea of how it feels to drive on the road to Dar. Villainous vehicles of all shapes, sizes, and speeds are set on running you off the road. If you’re not being stared down by the unblinking, luminous gaze of an oncoming HGV, then you’re being laughingly edged off a mountain pass by an impatient, high-sided behemoth.

Sadly, Tanzania’s Wacky Races don’t conclude in a comedy Crash! Bang! Wallop!, just a crumpled carcass strewn among the mountainside conifers – twisted steel skeletons, enough to scare us, but not truck drivers from vying for first place in their imaginary race.

And then there’s the police check points, which hitherto haven’t been as irksome or multitudinous as in Tanzania.

‘Ah, from England. What gifts have you brought us from this England?’
We weren’t lying when we said we hadn’t any money – there aren’t many ATMs between the Malawian border and Dar es Salaam. All we could offer was a treasure trove of hand sanitizer, sun cream and insect repellent.

‘Nothing else?’

Nothing else.

A reluctant ‘Welcome to Tanzania’ and we were on our way. Until the next police checkpoint. Repeat above conversation.

Money did eventually change hands when we were flagged down for our first speeding offence. Without looking at us, a languid lady police officer sloped into our path, idly pointing something more suited to a Strom Trooper than a traffic cop (a speed gun, we’re told) in our general direction. We stopped and smiled the best roadworthy smiles we could muster.

Still not looking at us, lady law kissed her hand and shook Davy’s. Kissed it again and shook Giles’s. Odd, yes, but this was apparently to compensate for the fact she didn’t speak a word of English.

She smiled at us, knowingly, we beamed back, unknowingly.

Before the grinning contest became uncomfortable, another officer emerged from the shade of a nearby tree (the police checkpoint) and informed us that we were travelling 71 in a 50 zone.

Bribe time.

How much?

Twenty thousand Tanzanian shillings.

We explained that the dearth of ATMs meant we only had 12,000, but could make up the rest in dollars.

Dollars, you say? How much?

Ten.

Give me ten.

We gave him ten and were sent on our way. The officer’s preference for shiny US dollars over local currency meant we got away with only paying half the fine.

God bless America.

Anywhere in Africa

2009-10-29T00:04:00.000-07:00

A quick nightcap? Why not?

We follow our new friend Mayo through the blackest of nights to the village pub. Needless to say, it’s no Nag’s Head, just a small shack with a small bar and a small television. The all-male clientele aren’t sat at the bar, they’re sat in rows, basking in the luminous bling, bitches and beaches of hip-hop videos. All still, all expressionless.

Mayo orders the beer as we take our seats outside the makeshift movie theatre, cloaked in the invisibility of the night, looking on.

Women loiter by the door. Clumsy body language, yet implicit in intent.

Who are they? Ladies. Ladies looking for men. Men to marry? Ha! No! For money... for a beer! Anything.

One holds a baby.

The man did not want the baby and left her. She’ll go down to the beach for money.
A local sees through our disguise of darkness. He stumbles closer. He asks for beer.
He loses interest. He wanders back into the pub.

And the baby? She’ll put the baby on the sand next to her.

Outside, we sit in silence. Inside, 50 Cent in the club with a bottle full of Bud.

Seventy five percent of people have AIDS in the village. It’s better in the city – more people are educated – but here no one cares.

We watch a man leads woman and child towards the beach. The imperfect family fade into the night.

We finish our flat, sour beer, buy Mayo phone credit, and head home. Mayo fills our ears with questions about England. The air is filled with the distant smell of smoke: the villagers are burning the forest for charcoal. Hot red cuts across the hills. The world is on fire.