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Post by lola on Jun 10, 2011 20:12:04 GMT
Superhuman diplomacy skills.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 11, 2011 16:49:16 GMT
I'm expecting the worst for the next installment. So many people are totally clueless about cooking and are also incapable of comprehending that cooking for 10 or 20 people requires a bit of thinking ahead of time, as well as calculations about when the pasta or rice might be ready in terms of the other ingredients.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 11, 2011 18:20:16 GMT
Food was always a topic of conversation throughout a trip. Many a hour was spent discussing what food you might be missing or what you fancied at that particular moment. The normal routine was that the group members would pair off to form a cook team. Each team would then be responsible for the food buying and preparation for a twenty four hour period. They would then hand on to the next team and so on until it was their turn again depending on the total number of group members.
As I was responsible for all the money concerned with the trip then each day I would give the cooks some of the local currency and find somewhere for them to buy food. It was up to them as to what they bought and what they cooked. Initially I would have to give them some guidance as to the proportions and what was available. But after a turn or two they would quite happily go off and I would leave them to it.
Not many people were used to cooking for a group of twenty so at first they would be unsure exactly how much food was needed. There was also a number of diverse nationalities and different tastes so that you could never be sure what the meal was going to be. Many people professed that they couldn’t cook so as part of the equipment each truck carried a recipe book for reference if they wanted it.
There were two English lads who teamed up and neither of them could cook, apart from pasta and tomato sauce, so no matter how much advice they were given you could guarantee that the meal was always the same. The main problem was that it was necessary to keep the meals as simple as possible due to the constraints of time and available food. This meant that a lot of pasta was served. I didn’t like pasta so I would try and find out what was to be cooked and then buy my own supply of potato or rice.
If one team were to go shopping it would be difficult if they had a pre-conceived idea of what they were to prepare. They would then go in to the market and not find the right ingredients. They would waste a lot of time wandering around and it took some practise for them to think on their feet and make a decision when they saw what was available. Often the meat available was not of a very good quality so there were many vegetarian meals, no problem usually but I had to make sure that an alternative source of protein was found.
Sometimes I probably didn’t make it clear as to what the money was for (actually I did, I just think some people are stupid). I would give them the money, they would go off and come back, as one man did, with sweets, potato chips, chewing gum and biscuits. He then said that there was no good food in this market and could we call at another one, and have some more money as well, but he had bought some snacks to keep us going.
Some other times a person would go off shopping and come back having spent all the money on expensive imported canned or packet food, not enough to feed the group though and then ask for more money. Breakfast cereals were a main sticking point. Normal cornflakes or muesli were very expensive but some of the group were so used to eating their normal brand of low fat, low salt, no sultana, no nut muesli.
Breakfasts consisted of some form of cereal and what ever the cooks wanted to prepare, but it was from local food. Also the quantities of something like cornflakes that a group of twenty would eat over a long trip were an impressive amount, and very expensive when they insisted it had to be Kellogg’s. On more than one occasion, when we were low on cereals one of the cooks would go off to shop and come back with some boxes of imported cereal and then ask me for more money to cover the rest of the food.
The amount of money available was in direct proportion to what they had paid for the trip. Had they paid a lot more money then we would have been set to eat in restaurants, but it was a self catering trip, as they all were, so the cost of the trip was cheaper. Some would always try and get you to pay for meals in a restaurant to try and get something extra, as we all would I suppose.
Each truck would initially try and carry a certain amount of stock in any case, sometimes to be used where there was a poor food supply or just to liven up the meals. These stocks were either bought from a major town before the trip started or if the vehicle was setting off from England then at one of the large local supermarkets near to the workshop. One Dutch girl felt that as we were advertising world wide, and the groups were from many different nationalities then we should stock up with international food sourced from different countries. A good idea but not really so easy to obtain.
The usual rule was that the cooks prepared whatever they wanted within the medical needs of the group, i.e. any food allergies, but not to take too much in to account of the large number of preferences evident throughout a group. Otherwise they would spend all their time in effect making individual meals rather than one for the whole. If someone had a preference then they could make that when it was their turn to cook. Have you ever tried to make eggs for breakfast for twenty people? Everyone always has their own way of wanting it. At these times I would tell the cooks to stand back and let each one cook it however they liked.
On one trip there were two Italian sisters who formed a cook team. Both of them were quite small and it was obvious that they didn’t eat very much. On the first time they cooked I offered to help them but they assured me they could manage. After a long drawn out process for the evening meal we ended up with a small bowl of pumpkin soup and half a slice of bread. It tasted very good but was clearly not enough.
I didn’t say anything but the next time another bowl of soup appeared. I asked them if that was what they would normally eat at home and they said it was. The next night we had decided that we would all eat out in a restaurant with our own money. I sat beside the girls (they were pretty after all) and ordered two main courses and two deserts, I was very hungry after having many days of working.
One of them, after looking at the amount I had consumed, said to me, “When we cook, do we make enough?” “Not really for me,” I said. “Ok” she said, “We will make some pasta as well” It wasn’t the best solution given my dislike of pasta but at least the rest of the group were happy!
Some of the best meals we had were the simplest. We needed something to fill up on rather than little but good tasting things. Mashed potato with sausages or a large stir fry with plenty of rice were good. Chips (French fries) were difficult as there was never enough to go round at the first go and the cooks would end up spending half the night slaving over a hot chip pan. When we could use wood for the oven I used to enjoy cooking a shepherds pie or even apple crumble. Baked potatoes always went down well, as did a large pot of Chilli. Cauliflower cheese or omelette were good as were pancakes and potato fritters. Bubble and squeak and corned beef hash were cooked from time to time with good results as well.
Bread was rarely baked as it was easier to buy it fresh but when I was going through central Africa this was difficult so we had to bake our own every night. The first results were quite poor but we soon managed to make something that was edible. In fact the worst place to obtain a regular food supply was in what used to be called Zaire, now the DR Congo. We had to virtually take in with us all the food we could, dried, tinned and packaged. We didn’t eat too badly, enough to keep you going but it tended to be monotonous.
One cook team of two women went shopping with the food money and never came back with any change. They always swore blind they’d spent the exact sum. Yeah, right. One woman insisted on cutting vegetables in the palm of her hand and sure as eggs are eggs made a deep cut requiring stitches. One group in India decided they’d had enough of cooking and requested paying a local to cook for us. I acquiesced as I was curious and after two days they sacked him because they didn’t like the taste of it and he used far too much oil.
One pair of cooks put all their eggs in one basket, literally, they decided to make a massive omelette/Spanish tortilla but on the way back to the truck dropped them all in the road accidentally. One good looking lad charmed a couple of girls to do the cooking for him every time. One selfish lad bought just enough sausages for him and his three mates on the trip. One woman said she did all the cooking at home and refused to do any. I told her she was on the wrong trip then and either cooked, found someone else to do it, or leave. She cooked and actually made some really good meals.
A few group members had never cooked at all, never mind for a group, they either always had takeaways, ate out, went home to their mother or had sandwiches. One Japanese girl made nothing but plain boiled rice and soy sauce. In Zimbabwe one lad who was a butcher bought a whole warthog and butchered and roasted it for us. One woman turned out the most perfect cakes and biscuits but couldn’t make toast to save her life. One girl decided to sieve the boiling potato water over her bare feet and couldn’t walk for a week.
Once whilst in a campsite a couple gave all the food money for the day and a shopping list to a local. He didn’t come back. The very worst though was at a lunch stop I fell asleep in the cab and no-one woke me up when it was ready. Etc, etc.
I never thought that water would cause a problem, not the supply but the taste of it. Most people had no problem but there was the odd one or two could not be satisfied. The water was kept in a tank on the truck and was made of metal. During periods of hot weather then it would get quite warm and it was unpleasant to have to drink warm water. That was the problem though, the hotter it got the more water you had to drink.
Also it had to be treated with a chemical to make it safe, if over used then the chemical would be able to be tasted. Some opted for buying bottled water but they still had the problem of keeping it cool. At times someone would become ill through dehydration and it would be purely because they were only drinking the bottled water and they were unable to buy it, so they would go without.
One Canadian girl was so used to only drinking bottled or mineral water at home that she refused to drink the truck water. She would search all over for some and if the was none then she would dehydrate and I’m sure she felt worse than drinking the truck water. What made it more difficult for her was that she had a thing about how much sodium was in it. I was with her in a supermarket when she went through a row of different types of water, examined the contents on the bottle and if she thought there was too much sodium then she would put it back and choose another. After passing up many different makes she walked out with a can of cola. That was all she had to drink that day until we reached a campsite with a bar where she went through their stock of water, rejected it all, and bought herself another cola.
It was a good experience to do a journey from Nepal through to Egypt as there was a large variety of different foods available. Initially in India then there were numerous different types of vegetables and fruit, lots of different breads and spices. Pakistan was similar but had more of a western flavour to the food. Once in Iran then few vegetables were to be had and it was mainly meat and rice based. On entering Turkey then I used to go mad and eat lots and lots of soft white bread with everything. Into the Middle East then the food became more Arabic and had a completely different flavour. It was all so good it would be difficult to choose my favourite. I would probably though say that my favourite meat was ostrich steak, which I had, many times in southern Africa, Turkey had the best all round variety and with India coming close second if you liked the taste of curry.
The meal which I was looking forward to the most and which tasted the best was, after spending over three months travelling through west and central Africa, arriving in Kampala in Uganda at a campsite I knew and having Burger and Chips. It was so good and rich though that it nearly made me sick!
Anthony asked, “How close can you get to the animals?”
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Post by onlymark on Jun 11, 2011 18:32:40 GMT
High above Lake Malawi is a game park situated on Nyika Plateau. It was good to spend a day or so there as it was sufficiently high enough that the weather was considerably cooler than near the lake. The road was well surfaced initially but then deteriorated to a small dirt track. This was a route over the border to Zambia from Malawi, a little used crossing, the track up to the game park turning from the main one before reaching the border.
The plateau itself was at 2600 metres above the level of the lake, which lay a little above sea level, and it would take the best part of a day to drive up to it. The best part of a day if it was dry but when wet then the higher parts became just a bog of wet sticky soil. We would try and stock up with food at a small town called Rumphi before attempting to ascend.
The track would take a fairly tortuous path through the hills passing numerous small villages on the way. Frequently we could travel at no more than twenty kilometres per hour as we negotiated rocks, potholes and washouts. Washouts were where during a very heavy rain fall the run off water would scythe its way across the camber of the road or track and cut out a trench up to a metre deep or just cut away large areas of the surface leaving a mess of loose earth underneath.
As we ascended the air would get cooler and cooler and seemingly more clear. There were times when we could see further in to the distance than we had done for many weeks. After taking the turn to the park instead off straight on to the border then the track would get even worse. There were steep climbs and hairpin bends that required careful negotiation. Eventually we would reach the plateau and as it was fairly flat then any surface water tended to stay where it was. This caused the ground to become waterlogged and trying to drive through this often resulted in the truck getting stuck up to its axles in the mud. The area itself was always well worth the effort put in to getting there.
The countryside was reminiscent of Scotland in that there were rolling hills covered in ferns and heather. The trees were usually pine and not the acacia found at the hotter, lower levels. There were supposed to be no large cats around so it was relatively safe to walk on safari. The game mainly consisted of types of gazelle, antelope and zebra. But because of the lack of competition from other predators there were quite a few hyena roaming around. One of the favourite ways to get through the park was on horseback, a good vantage point for game spotting and ease of sneaking up on them.
Accommodation consisted of a couple of rooms at the main game park headquarters or a rather basic campsite. The campsite had no showers or running water and toilets that were only a hole in the ground surrounded by a rudimentary screen. It was located in a grove of tall pine trees and needless to say though, it was a wonderful place to be as it was miles away from anywhere and at night there wasn’t a sound other than the wind passing through the branches.
We set up our camp at the site and settled down for our evening meal. Later we lit a small fire to sit round as the weather began to get cooler. We sat and chatted for a while then eventually most began to drift off to bed. I hadn’t noticed before but there seemed to be not enough tents erected for the number of the group. Three of the males told me that as it was so peaceful they had decided to sleep out in the open around the fire, using the fire for warmth and protection.
I also soon went off to bed and left them to it, it had been a hard day driving for me and I was getting quite tired. Everything was so quiet I had a really good sleep and woke refreshed early the next morning. As I got up I noticed one of the three males from around the fire was walking about with only his shirt on, one was dressed but hobbling about with no footwear and one who was never to be seen without his hat on was walking around bareheaded.
As I came to them I was asked if I had heard anything in the night. I told them that I hadn’t and asked why. They told me that they were missing a pair of shorts, a pair of leather sandals and the hat. I knew there was no one else at the campsite and no one else within a couple of kilometres of us. We began to search around and soon found a dirty ripped rag, which was identified as what was left of the shorts. Nearby we found a knife, the remnants of the hat and just the plastic soles of the sandals.
After some initial puzzlement we found a common factor. Leather. The hat had had a leather band around it, the upper part of the sandals, a belt and knife pouch attached to the shorts were all leather too. We decided that the only explanation was that an animal had come to the fire after it had died down, and while the three were asleep had taken the cast off clothes to feed on the leather.
One girl in the group then said that during the night she had gone to the toilet, but after getting out of her tent she had seen a hyena passing through the camp and rushed back in again. She had gone to bed early the previous night and didn’t know of the three sleeping at the fire. I asked her if she was certain it was a hyena as it was dark. She was adamant she had as the shape is so distinctive. There was the answer then I said.
The male who had lost the shorts then started saying, “Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit.” We asked him what was the matter. It turns out that he was using the shorts as a pillow! The hyena must have taken them from under his head while he was asleep! “There is something else.” He said. “I remember having a dream that I was sleeping with a girl who had bad breath. She was breathing in my face so I pushed her away and turned over!”
The next night we all slept in tents and hid all our clothes.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 11, 2011 18:56:12 GMT
How lucky that humans apparently do not smell or taste like leather!
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Post by onlymark on Jun 13, 2011 19:22:21 GMT
Speak for yourself.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 13, 2011 19:49:13 GMT
We were travelling that day between Fort Monroe and Loralai. We were in the north west of Pakistan, an area known not unsurprisingly as the North West Frontier Province. Before 1947 it was part of India but then there was Partition when the separate country of Pakistan was formed. It resulted in a time of bloodshed between the Moslems heading west out of India to their new country and the Hindus travelling east.
Previous to 1947 it was all part of the British Empire but the North West Frontier Province was always the scene of bitter fighting. The British never managed to fully subdue the tribesmen, the area bordering on Afghanistan, a country of fierce fighting men, the British and Russians finding to their cost.
Fort Monroe was one of the fortifications set up by the British to protect the trade routes. The fort was now in a state of disrepair. This was the scene of our last night's camp after a hard drive up the escarpment. Actually we stayed in the grounds of an old rest house nearby, the fort being too structurally decrepit. We were heading that night for Loralai, the largest town in the area. But still unsafe enough that we were to camp at the local police station in the centre.
The road had risen out of the Indus plain from Derra Ghazi Khan in a series of narrow hairpin bends up to the old fort and then continued on with nowhere to turn off for mile after mile. Thousands of feet in height were gained from the plain, the road being the only way through the mountains apart from a several hundred mile detour to the south. Eventually this leg of the journey would see us in Quetta. A city by most standards.
The road itself was no more than a single strip of tarmac barely wide enough for a truck. When two vehicles met they both had to put their left side wheels onto the verge. As the road was frequently built up from its surroundings to protect the surface from the rains then the edges became waterlogged and soft. The vehicle who went furthest on to the verge ran the greatest risk of literally falling off the road.
The local trucks were always dangerously overloaded so when they met in opposite directions there was frequently a “Mexican stand off” where neither would commit themselves to manoeuvring around the other for fear off tipping over. Eventually they would creep past each other with a lot of shouting and cursing, the drivers mate would be out giving directions, often being contradicted by anyone else nearby. They would leave the smallest gap possible between themselves, I'm sure no more than a few atoms in thickness.
The road rises and rises getting smaller and smaller with a shear rock face on one side and a precarious drop on the other. Only in a small number of places is it wide enough to allow two trucks to pass. This results in the drivers rushing as fast as they can either up or down before anything else appears to block their progress. They dart between the passing places with horns blaring, the wheels scrambling for grip and the overloaded truck swaying from side to side as it careens around the bends. Woe betide anyone who gets the technique wrong as it frequently ends up in someone disappearing through the flimsy barrier and launching themselves into a very quick and short trip into the atmosphere in a rather poor imitation of Pakistan’s answer to the space shuttle.
Anyway, I digress. At one point in the journey that day over a hundred tribesmen surrounded me. Each one held a gun. I didn’t. Some held old Lee Enfield 303‘s, others AK47‘s, made two days drive away in Darra. They all had one thing in common. They were all angry with me.
The temperature seemed to be rising quite quickly and a fragment of a song kept wandering in and out of my thoughts. Something about mad dogs and Englishmen. My face couldn’t make up its mind whether to be flushed because of the heat or drained because of fright. The local style of baggy trousers managed to hide though my shaking knees. In a previous job I had usually been able to talk my way out of problems. This time I doubted whether anyone at all understood English.
There were no Police or Army to be seen. Out here tribal law is everything, no one else has authority. The nearest station was a long hard drive back down the escarpment, back the way we had come and as in every country there never seems to be a helpful face when you need one. I realised this could cost me a lot of money at the least. The physical threat was always apparent.
I was quite surprised that so far everyone was keeping to a tight circle formed around me. Nobody had yet made the first move. The noise was tremendous, a few were quiet but everyone else seemed to want to have their say. I could never tell if they were arguing with each other or just working their way into a frenzy.
One man was extremely agitated, he was being held back by two others who were trying to stop him coming towards me. He was ranting and raving, pointing at first to behind him where a fully loaded truck lay on its side, badly damaged, and then to me. Spittle formed a punctuation to his words and gestures. He was very pissed off.
I was completely at a loss as to what to do. I knew the demand for money would come, I also knew that it was too much for me to pay. The problem would be the next step. It was no use knowing that I was in the right, that I had done nothing wrong. I had slowed right down, I had tried to give as much ground as possible but the other driver had veered away too far on to the soft verge. This had collapsed forcing his truck over onto its side, his speed had done the rest.
I had seen it in my mirrors as it flipped over spilling out the contents of the load as well as numerous passengers who had been perched on the top. I had stopped and seen that luckily no one was injured. I immediately drove on hoping that I could make it to the next large town the following day to report it to the police. It was just my bad luck that it had happened in the middle of a small village.
After being able to spend hours not seeing another vehicle there were two at once. The first being the truck that had rolled on its side, the second being an old pick up. The pick up turned round quickly and followed me. It was in fact the local bakery owner who then began to force his way past me. I was unwilling to block him as not only did he have a faster vehicle he had a rather large rifle held out of the window waving at me. He had all the advantages so I took the hint and allowed him past.
We both stopped and I quickly understood he wanted me to return to the village. Pointing the rifle at me had the desired effect and I managed to turn my truck around on a patch of rocky ground and drove back. That was when I had been surrounded. I then saw a man working his way towards the inner edge of the circle. He was difficult to miss, as he was a good head taller than anyone else. He stopped from time to time to speak with someone or other who then fell silent and moved away from him.
Eventually he came to the man who was being restrained. I then could see him quite clearly. He not only was taller than everyone else, he seemed wider and somehow just bigger. Part of this was the way he carried himself, a person of some authority. He was dressed the same as the crowd in baggy trousers, the “shalwai” worn throughout the region, large shirt worn outside the pants, the “khamis”, a small open waistcoat and a soft, round woollen Pathan hat, but it all seemed cleaner.
He looked to be in his late forties, about ten years older than myself. His face was darkened by years spent outside in all weathers, his beard was just showing signs of grey, his hands were large and strong, there didn’t seem to be an ounce of softness about him. He looked as though some time in the recent past his ancestors had come the short way south out of Afghanistan and settled here.
The other thing that set him apart from the rest was he was not carrying any sort of firearm, none that I could see anyway. He spoke in quiet tones, the driver of the other truck eventually falling silent. He then turned to look at me fully. I wasn’t sure if I should smile in a friendly way or look down or fall at his feet or just look very frightened. The last option was the easiest by far.
He walked the three paces over to me, his sandals kicking up dust as he deliberately placed his feet. He stopped an arms length in front of me and asked, “What is your name?” I told him and wondered how much English he actually knew, maybe I could explain everything to him.
He then said, “You are a guest in our country. Go now. But learn from this.” I said, “Thank you.”
I didn’t need telling twice so I spun on my heels and walked as calmly as I could back to my truck. I could tell the faces peering out the side at me were as concerned as I was. I drove away as quickly as I could without it looking as I was escaping. Not two hundred metres further on someone in the back of my truck pressed the buzzer signalling they wanted to stop for a toilet. I also wanted to badly but I didn’t for the next hour. Little did they know I had almost gone a few minutes before when first surrounded by the crowd.
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Post by lola on Jun 14, 2011 4:02:30 GMT
The tall man was an angel. Did anyone in your group ever come back you up in such a situation, or did they sit back and figure you were earning your salary?
Imagine insisting on Kellog's.
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Post by lola on Jun 14, 2011 4:07:02 GMT
I hope the guy with the stolen shorts was someone who'd thought he wanted to get really close to animals.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 14, 2011 5:29:00 GMT
The guy with the shorts was a bit traumatised. You see so many wildlife films with hyenas creating havoc, and supposedly having the strongest jaws of any animal, that he was quite quiet for the next few days.
The tall guy got me out of a right pickle, but I wouldn't want to cross him. In those and similar circumstances I didn't want the group 'helping' me. I wanted them all in the truck, in one place, so I could make a quick exit if necessary. I also didn't want them to be a target for the crowd or say the wrong thing. I would expect half of them wouldn't realise the seriousness of the situation and thought it was just part of day to day travelling life. I also think for the majority they wouldn't realise over the course of the trip, until several weeks/months later, quite how much work was needed to run it and cover all the bases.
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Post by Deleted on Jun 14, 2011 7:32:38 GMT
"Quick exit" is always a high priority for me. Although I now try to avoid hostile crowds, when I have taken old ferry boats in Indonesia or dilapidated buses in other places, I am always looking for the best way out in an emergency, preferably without trampling anybody. I even calculate how to get out of a crashing plane, although that is probably a waste of time.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 14, 2011 7:58:02 GMT
I'm the type who does actually count the seats to the nearest exit on the plane. It is unlikely anything would happen, flying is very safe.
Crashing isn't though.
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Post by hwinpp on Jun 14, 2011 10:15:41 GMT
Reading thename Loralai immediately brought back memories. It reminds e of the Lorelei on the Rhine which can be so much more pleasant. ;D
We had some problems once with some tribesmen going from Swat to Gilgit and it was solved similarly. We'd got stuck in a landslide and needed the help of a truck. It pulled us through a bad spot but then suddenly the men who'd helped wanted astronomical sums which my father wasn't prepared to pay. It looked like a standoff until an old fart on a donkey came along and told them to leave us alone, which they did!
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Post by onlymark on Jun 14, 2011 10:53:13 GMT
hwinpp, I know both places and I'm with you without a doubt. I used to drive often up the Karakoram Highway to Gilgit via the Swat Valley. Absolutely beautiful. Some old pictures -
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Post by onlymark on Jun 15, 2011 12:35:12 GMT
This next is an account of quite an epic trip. It's too long to post all in one go so I'll split it up into manageable sections.
So ..................
The basic plan seemed quite simple. A group of fourteen of us were to drive from London to Nairobi, but none of us had done it before - including me. There was actually twelve in the group, plus myself and a trainee, who would go a long way to sharing the driving and I would train him on the way. We were a mix of English, Australian, Dutch, Canadian, Japanese and Danish.
Eight were female and six male. We ranged in age from 20yrs to 47yrs old. From students to an Executive. We would go through a number of trials and tribulations, some pushing us apart, some drawing us closer together. The route was from Europe in to Morocco, then Mauritania, Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, Nigeria, Cameroon, Central African Republic, Democratic Republic of the Congo (Zaire), Uganda and finally in to Kenya.
We set off one December and drove through France and Spain in cool but sunny weather, all was well with the world. We crossed over to Morocco and quickly got in to a routine of travelling, eating and sleeping. The only cloud early on was one night when it rained. It had done so when we were all tucked up nice and snug in our tents so it didn’t bother us. The next morning we had to pack away the tents while they were still wet and so that evening when we had reached our intended campsite we began to re-erect them.
The Dutch girl came to me and asked if she could have another tent as hers was wet. I had a conversation with her about there not being an unlimited supply of tents so that if one was wet we couldn't just pull out of somewhere another one. She had only access to one tent and it needed to be looked after, put up properly and dried out when it was possible.
I knew that there wouldn’t really be a problem with rain over the course of the trip but I didn’t want her to think that if something was not right then you just discarded it and got another one from somewhere or that some one else would look after all the equipment. We had a pleasant Christmas on the beach at Essaouira in Morocco and continued on down the coast to Dakhla. We stayed there for a day or two while we sorted out the paperwork to cross the Western Sahara in to Mauritania. That is where the trip began to get more difficult.
To cross over you had to join a military convoy that only left on certain days and also a minefield that you had to negotiate separated the two countries. We set off south from Dakhla on a nice new tarmac road, initially in a convoy with the army and around forty other vehicles. The faster ones quickly went ahead of us and we just carried on at our own pace as fast as we could. It wasn’t until just before midday that we set off.
Initially we were all told to meet at a certain point in the town at 8am, packed and ready to go. We all did and then there was the usual games of hurry up and wait. We would be sitting around near our vehicles when there would be a flurry of activity somewhere near the front. We would all jump in ready to go and then we would pull forward about twenty metres and stop, then wait for another half an hour or so until the same thing happened again.
Whilst we were waiting I saw a man walking around going from car to car and truck to truck. He was clearly not a local and dressed as though he came from Western Europe, he looked as though he was an Englishman on a hiking holiday. He wore sandals with short nylon socks, shorts with a number of pockets that came down to just below his knees, a long sleeved nylon shirt that was rolled up to his elbows, in his hand was a handkerchief which he frequently mopped his brow even though it didn’t seem very hot, he had fair skin and I could see he had a very red face.
He looked around mid fifties in age and was carrying on his back a well-worn canvas rucksack. He looked like what you would expect a Scoutmaster to look like or an eccentric Englishman, or actually both together. He made his way round to us and asked in a rather upper class English accent as to who was in charge. I was pointed out and he said to me, “My name is Jeremy. I understand you are in charge of this expedition.” “Yes” I admitted. He said, “Could you see your way awfully to giving me a lift?” I said, “Where are you going?” “Oh, all the way.” He said. “All the way to where?” I said. “Oh, right to the very end.” “To the end of what.” “To the end of the convoy thingy.” “I’m sorry.” I said, “But we are full.” “What bad luck, can’t you just squeeze me in anywhere?” “Sorry.” I said and he moved off down to the next vehicle.
I was never happy giving people lifts as the group had paid a lot of money to travel and I had had people objecting to the fact that someone was getting a free ride no matter how short it would be. It was easier just to say no than cause any aggro. Also I knew the end of the convoy was in Mauritania and I would end up taking him all the way across the border. I had no idea who he was and if he had any problems then we would all be dragged in to it. It was a risk I was not prepared to take just to avoid being unfriendly.
A little while later he came back to us, he had arranged a lift and was just curious as to what we were doing. We also found out his story. He was a History Master from a Public School and was on holiday completing one of his ambitions. He said, “I’ve been fascinated by Sir Francis Drake and I’m following the course of one of his journeys.” “But wasn’t he a sailor.” He was asked. “Yes.” He said “But aren’t you missing out on the object of it by doing it on land?” “Well I can’t afford a boat and anyway I get sea sick very easily, so I’m making the best job I can of it.” He said. Funnily enough he soon lost his audience as they went off shaking their heads.
Eventually we set off for real. We arrived at the end of the tarmac around two hours after the sun had set to make camp in the dust. We quickly made ourselves something to eat and settled down to sleep. The next morning we were to set off at again 8am, so everyone struck camp and lined up on the track to wait for the military to decide it was time to go. It was December the 31st, New Years Eve.
From there on there was no road as such, just a track through the desert. There was actually not one track but a number of them, usually fanning around an obstacle caused by a sand dune or areas of rocks. I knew that at some time that day we were supposed to go through the minefield. I had heard of a recent trip by a truck from another overland company who had strayed off the track, hit a mine and blown off the front wheel. Hence I tried to find the most travelled track and stick to it, if I could follow another vehicle but at a safe distance behind. As it turned out we actually went through it the next day.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 15, 2011 12:45:17 GMT
As you would expect, the convoy set off very late, the vehicles all strung out and picking their own path. All the two wheel drive cars that the previous day had raced down the tarmac were all now getting stuck in the sand or making large diversions around areas that looked soft. All the slower trucks were now towards the front just behind the four-wheel drive jeeps and such like. We stayed somewhere in the middle, frequently losing sight of the vehicles in front and behind. We knew the general direction we were supposed to go but there were times when we had to wait until we had crested a rise to be able to see around us and pick the most likely direction from any vehicles or dust trails we could see. The day went on and on.
The only amusement we had was passing by the bogged down cars, offering to help but usually being waved on with a thanks and making rude gestures to the two English lads we'd met, actually brothers, on their BMW motorbikes. These two we had first seen in Marrakech in a campsite. They had had their tent stolen from the rear of one of their bikes and were trying to cope without one. Over the next few days they would come and have a drink with us and a chat, one of them was quite sweet on an English girl in my group so they seemed to turn up all the time.
The convoy through the sand was travelling too slowly for them, they needed to keep up a certain speed so as they did not fall off. So they would race ahead to the front where the military vehicle was leading and the stop until the last vehicle had passed, start off again up to the front and repeat the procedure. We were still travelling as it got dark, then still at 8pm, then 9pm, then 10pm came and went. By this time a number of the cars had already stopped and made camp, eventually at 11pm I called a halt and we stopped to set up.
What I didn’t realise until I walked over the next small ridge that night to find somewhere to go to the toilet was that just about at the same time, no more than 200 metres in front of us the military had also called it a day. New Years Eve and we were all too tired to do anything other than make a quick meal, have a short chat to the motorbike lads who some how managed to turn up again, and try and drift off to sleep under the stars. But I hadn’t counted on Jeremy, the follower of Drake.
He came to me, some how he had found us, and asked in a none to friendly way if there was any food for him. One of the girls gave him some bread and he muttered about that being all. I told him we had already eaten and everything was packed away. He then asked for a tent. I told him we didn’t have any spare, they were all being used. Then he wanted a blanket. I told him we didn’t have any as we normally used sleeping bags. Then he asked to sleep in the truck. I’m sorry, I told him as the cooks sleep in there so they can get an early start without having to bother taking a tent down.
He said he didn’t have any sleeping stuff as he had forgotten it when he left home. I took sympathy on him a little and let him borrow an old oily blanket I use to lie on underneath the truck for repairs. I then told him to bed down by the trailer wheel using it as a windbreak as by now it was getting cool. He lay down moaning about wanting another blanket to use as a pillow. I told him to use his rucksack but he refused giving the reason that it was too hard. Well do without I told him.
We grabbed as much sleep as we could and at first light we had some breakfast and started to break camp. Jeremy was still asleep until this point, and then he woke up with a start and asked what were we doing. I told him we were getting ready to go and he said to me, “What about my breakfast?” “What about it.” I asked. “Don’t I get any?” He said. Now, I’m not my best in a morning and he was trying my patience somewhat. Gritting my teeth I told him that it was too late and maybe he should have thought about what he was going to do for food before he set off. His excuse was that he had always muddled through before. He then stalked off and luckily I never saw him again, otherwise I might have throttled him.
After another hesitant start we set off and after a few hours we came to the minefield. There was a clearly marked track through it so one by one we made our way to the Mauritanian border post nearby. I had to stop only twenty or so metres outside the minefield to wait for the cars in front of me to clear. I saw down behind me the two lads on the motorbikes as they were negotiating the last of the marked track. I knew they had both had difficulties with falling off in the soft sand and they were competing with each other to fall off the least. This nearly caused a bad incident though.
Just behind where I had stopped was a thirty-metre length of soft sand. The first lad came to it and immediately fell off. The second one accelerated on to it to try and skim across it. He lost control and to our horror veered of the track in to the minefield. We could actually see the tops of the mines poking through the sand. The second lad wobbled around and to our amazement cut through the middle between the mines and back on to the track again coming to a halt just behind us.
He was very lucky and in the way of true British understatement the only thing he said was, “Maybe it was good I didn’t fall off.” We all arrived in Nouadhibou in one piece and from there we were to begin the next part of the journey. Crossing the desert without any clearly marked or defined tracks for three days.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 15, 2011 12:58:58 GMT
Part of the convoy - Danger signs for the minefield -
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Post by Deleted on Jun 15, 2011 20:14:34 GMT
"Are we having fun yet?" The pictures are almost as good as my imagination.
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Post by hwinpp on Jun 16, 2011 7:36:50 GMT
LOL!
That's how the best adventures start!
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Post by Deleted on Jun 16, 2011 8:59:47 GMT
Don't a lot of those teen horror movies also start out with a group of about 14? Then 13, then 12, then 11....
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Post by onlymark on Jun 16, 2011 9:36:14 GMT
The potential for it to turn into a horror story was always there.
hwinpp, we've all got to start somewhere! I know the group were a bit horrified at the pre-departure meeting a couple of days before we set off when they found out that I'd never done the whole trip before (I'd done bits of it though in different sections)
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Post by lola on Jun 17, 2011 3:39:57 GMT
Trying to keep a group safely transported, entertained and out of trouble, fed, watered, reasonably contented seems like such a tall order. Not unlike being a naval captain, except you're not allowed to flog anyone.
Jeremy was a piece of work. He thought you should support him out of racial solidarity and patriotism.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 17, 2011 7:37:05 GMT
I was often amazed at how a normal sensible person who organises their own life perfectly well suddenly switches off and needs to be told what to do and how to do it all the time. It was as though some had such a culture shock all their systems shut down and had to be coaxed along in 'get you home' mode.
Probably half of it was they decided they were having a holiday and didn't want to think of doing anything, but whilst there were some who involved themselves more and entertained themselves, helped with everything, there were many who just expected everything to be done for them. I'll always remember a girl who was constantly messy and leaving all the kit strewn around the truck. She never wanted to help with anything either. Her excuse was she was on holiday, she was just 'renting' and felt it was perfectly OK to trash it all the time, as she did with hotel rooms.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 17, 2011 12:30:35 GMT
From Nouadhibou to the next major town to the south is around 500km, there is no road, just the odd poorly defined track here and there. A number of people who do this journey will use a GPS system, that is buy a device that uses a system of satellites to plot there position. From this you can locate exactly where you are and where you want to go. All well and good but one of the problems in this area is that there is a lot of sand which will move around causing soft places where there were none before and moving dunes in to the path that you want to take.
What you really need is a guide who not only knows the way, he knows the best route to take and can also read the shifting sands to give you the best surface to travel on. One such man was Achmed. A previous leader had told me of him and if we managed to find him then to use him, as he was reliable and knowledgeable. As it turned out he found us. Just as we were entering Nouadhibou there was a small checkpoint where we had to stop. One of the military came to us to check our paperwork and after doing so he asked us if we needed a guide as his “friend” was here.
His “friend” gave me a card that I recognised as one from my company and it was from the leader who had used him before. He said his name was Achmed but he only spoke French, no English. With the help of the military guy we arranged to meet him in a couple of days and negotiated a fee for his services.
The morning came of our departure and in the arranged place at the right time was waiting Achmed, at least we are off to a good start I thought. He got in the cab with me and we set off. I then could get a good look at him. He was aged somewhere between 65 and 120, it was difficult to tell because his face was so wrinkled from the sun. His skin looked like old leather that has been polished and then left out for a century or two in a sand storm, he was wearing typical desert garb which could have been Tuareg, Bedouin or whatever, I couldn’t tell the difference, and he had what are called “desert eyes”.
His eyes were black, long eyelashes, but the part normally white was red. He looked as though he had spent all his life in the desert and in fact he probably had. I wondered if he was as good a guide as he looked the part. We had filled up with fuel, food and water, enough to last us many days just in case but the first thing Achmed did was to ask me to stop and using the little French I knew and a lot of sign language he jumped back out of the truck and around to the side. He pointed at the fuel tank and asked if it was full, then to the water tank and asked if that was full, then he asked if we had food. He must have been satisfied with my answers because he jumped back in again and pointed for us to go ahead.
I felt that there was a mutual trust thing going here. I was impressed that he had bothered to stop and ask, he wanted to be prepared as much as I did, shows he knew a little about what he was doing. He gave a grudging nod of his head in respect of the fact that I had already filled up with everything I could. As we couldn’t communicate too well at all there were no conversations between us as we drove along, soon we were out of the town and in to the desert proper. If Achmed wanted me to drive in a particular direction he would point that way, if he wanted me to go faster he would tap the dashboard twice with his fist and emphatically point in the required direction.
If he wanted me to engage the four wheel drive he would use the only words we needed and say, “Quattro, Quattro.” If there was a particularly soft piece of sand where we needed to be in 4wd and go as fast as we could he would first point out the direction, shout, “Quattro, Quattro.” And pump his fist back and forth as though he was holding some dice and was just about to throw them. All in all it was quite effective and I soon got to anticipate a little of what he was wanting us to do.
What I never could have done though is to read the desert as well as he could. We would be travelling along part of one of the unmarked tracks when I would see him lean forward in his seat and peer around him. He would then all of a sudden point off to the right or left and start to tap the dashboard. I could see no reason at all for the diversion, all the dunes looked nearly the same to me, but I would veer off, we would go up and down several small dunes on virgin sand and eventually come back to the track, maybe the same one or a completely different one I could never tell, but often as we re-joined I would look back down the track and see many deep furrows where several, if not many, vehicles had previously been stuck.
How the bloody hell did he know, I often thought. It nearly all looked the same to me but obviously he knew exactly where he was and where to go. One time we were following the track of what had been only one vehicle when we were going up and down several small dunes. I came down one and could see the track going up and over the next one. I began to accelerate to get enough speed to crest the next dune when suddenly Achmed pointed to the right, down a small area between the dunes. I was very trusting by now of his capabilities so I obeyed, turned right and we cut down between the dunes and emerged on the far side of the one I was just about to go up. As we did so Achmed pointed to the left, I looked, and there was a large Landrover parked out of sight close to the foot of the dune, directly in the path of the route I was taking. The owners were sitting around having lunch, but had I gone over that dune it would have been difficult to stop in time without sliding down in to the Landrover. How he knew it was there is still a mystery to me. We honked our horn and waved at the people to check they were fine and carried on.
To travel on soft sand you either need to have special tyres or let down the pressure in the ones you have on. We didn’t have special ones so there was a running battle between Achmed and myself as to the right pressure for the tyres. If they were let down too far then they would overheat and damage the tyre, also they were easier to be punctured on the odd rock that was around. But if they were too high then it didn’t spread the load as well and it was easier to get stuck in the sand. On a normal road surface then the pressure was about six bars or ninety pounds per square inch. I had let them down to three bar but this was not enough for Achmed. Every time we stopped I could hear the hissing of air as he was letting more out. I didn’t want to get bogged in the sand but also I didn’t want to damage the tyres, they were to last us all the way across Africa I hoped.
They were also very expensive and another problem was I didn’t want to be stuck in the desert after ruining more tyres than we had spares for. He was quite happy to run them as low as one bar but I wasn’t, so every time we stopped from then on I would try and distract him so that he didn’t get chance to let any more air out. Eventually we came to a compromise, not as low as he wanted but lower than I did and we continued on our way.
At the end of the day we found a nice place to camp and began to set up the tents. Achmed decided he wanted one as well, which was fine by me, as he had nowhere else to sleep. Two of the group volunteered to put it up for him but they didn’t really know what they were letting themselves in for. Firstly they put it up in one spot while Achmed had gone for a short walk. He returned and didn’t like the spot, so they took it down and put it up where he indicated. Then he didn’t like the direction it was facing, so they turned it round. A second time, after a little thought, he again asked that it be turned further.
The two volunteers were getting frustrated by now and came to me to sort it out. I was unaware of what they were doing. I went to Achmed and he and myself drew exactly on the sand the site and direction to face of the tent. I confirmed with him that it was good and sort of made him understand that this was the last chance. He nodded, said, “Bon” and turned away with a slight smile on his face as though to say that he does this every time as a joke.
Around lunchtime on the second day we came to a halt within sight of the coast. I knew that at some time we would have to drive on the beach for quite a long way, as it was the easiest and quickest route to our destination. We set up lunch and the guide and myself went to have a look at the state of the beach. I could see that the sea was well up the shore but the beach was fairly shallow. A wave would break and then as it receded Achmed picked up a pebble and threw it down towards the water. When it landed he said something to me in French but I couldn’t understand.
He did this a couple of more times before I understood that when the sea had gone out to where the landing spot was then that was where we were going to drive. There was nothing for it but to sit and wait. We passed a pleasant few hours paddling in the water and I waited until Achmed came to me and motioned that we should go. I had been looking at the tide and I saw that even though the sea had receded quite a way, whenever a wave broke then it would wash over the part of the beach that we were to drive on. Nevertheless I loaded everyone in to the truck and we set off.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 17, 2011 12:37:24 GMT
First though we had to negotiate a small but very soft dune that was blocking our access to the sea. I had a good run up and we managed to scrabble over it and turn left on to the hard packed beach. It soon became apparent that if you drove too far away from the sea then the sand was soft, but if you drive too close then the in coming waves forced you to drive through the water throwing up spray in to the rear of the truck and on to the engine. It was a difficult problem and I could feel the salt water being force fed in to all the nooks and crannies of the truck as we were driving at around 60km/hr. I was hoping that none of the water would enter the air intake otherwise it could seriously damage the engine. It was spectacular driving though, the sea on one side and a row of sand dunes on the other. The dunes were also a worry to me as if we had broken down then we couldn’t get off the beach and I could see that the high tide mark was well up the dunes. We would have been stranded and the truck swamped.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 17, 2011 12:45:38 GMT
We hit a rather large area of water and the spray came nearly over the truck, just as we cleared it the warning light for the alternator came on. A diesel engine doesn’t need an electrical current to keep it going but if we were to travel in the dark with the lights on then all the charge would be used from the battery and you then couldn’t start the engine if it was stopped. By this time it was getting to be late afternoon and when we stopped for a quick break I asked Achmed as best as I could if we could reach our destination tonight. He said we could but it would be quite late, certainly dark. I didn’t want to risk driving along the beach in the dark, draining the battery all the time with the lights, possibly getting stuck and with no way to start the engine to get us out of trouble.
I told him that as soon as it was possible we would drive off the beach away from the sea, make camp and I would try and repair the alternator. Then set off early the next morning when the tide was out again. It was still another hour until we found a place to drive off, very soft sand though and we got stuck for a short time but no real problem. We soon found a place to camp in the shelter of a large dune from the cool, sea wind and I set about the repairs.
Two more volunteers from the group decided to set up the tent again for Achmed but before they did I made sure I spent a few minutes with him confirming exactly where it was to go and, after drawing the outline in the sand, the direction it was to face. He seemed quite happy this time and was soon brewing himself a cup of hot sweet tea. I managed to replace the alternator with the spare I carried and it worked fine, but we were plagued for a good few more weeks by the alternators breaking down. I would get them repaired but they would only last for a few days before becoming faulty again. I was convinced it was something in the wiring but it was too difficult to replace it all. Eventually the problem just seemed to go away and not re-appear.
The next day we set of early and drove without a problem in to Nouakchott where I gave the truck a good and thorough wash to try and get rid of all the salt on it. I also paid Achmed his fee and he went off a happy man, no doubt to try and find someone wanting a guide going back north. A very nice man and very good in the desert, without him I’m sure we would have become stuck many times and wasted a lot of time, he was well worth the money.
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Post by bjd on Jun 17, 2011 13:37:00 GMT
Interesting how your Achmed piloted you through the desert the way pilots direct boats in difficult rivers. Did you never have anyone with you who spoke anything but English? Were all your happy campers only English-speakers? I'll always remember a girl who was constantly messy and leaving all the kit strewn around the truck. She never wanted to help with anything either. Her excuse was she was on holiday,I used to have a sister-in-law like that.
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Post by onlymark on Jun 17, 2011 14:52:22 GMT
There working language of the trips was English. In the brochure (only in English) it stated that you must have a knowledge of it and could communicate (and v.v.) with the leader, me. As a result of this and the advertising target, the vast majority of group member came from English speaking countries like the UK, NZ and Australia. However, there were many nationalities who did come. At the beginning of this section I mentioned that "We were a mix of English, Australian, Dutch, Canadian, Japanese and Danish."
Usually there was someone who spoke a 'foreign' language, the Dutch girl for instance also spoke French, but I also had a Japanese girl on one trip who was deaf and dumb - though she understood English. There were often German nationals as well but Germany has it's own network of overlanding companies where the language is obviously German on the trips. My favourite were an Italian couple who came on a trip for their honeymoon. They were a very nice couple but always retired to their tent (pitched as far away from us as possible) straight after dinner.
My wife was a group member and speaks a number of languages, but saw the brochure at a University in Germany where she was studying. I tried to refrain from using a group member to translate or help with the day to day running of things but there were times when it was the easiest option.
It was the same with occupations. I didn't want the trip to become a 'busmans holiday' and rely on someone to do what they did at home. This was especially true with nurses and doctors. They needed time off as anyone so usually before the trip I'd have a private word with them asking, if they wanted, I wouldn't say what they were. This avoided the problem of others pestering them all the time with minor ailments.
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Post by tod2 on Jun 17, 2011 15:02:00 GMT
Thoroughly enjoying your account of 'your old job' Mark! I can hardly believe the brave things you attempted way back then........can you?
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Post by onlymark on Jun 17, 2011 16:25:13 GMT
I still wake up sweating some nights.
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