Stairway to Heaven, Ascent to Rwanda

After months of relatively smooth sailing in our 1973 Series lll Land Rover, we were suddenly faced with scads of mechanical issues needing attention. Serendipity was with us once again, in an odd way. But not for a series of breakdowns, we might well have been in Juba South Sudan at the time war broke out instead of in Bujumbura Burundi getting Ndoto fixed.

                                              

On the way to Burundi, in Kigoma, Tanzania we had all six bushings replaced for the second time in seven months. Not surprising, since Ndoto takes a beating on the roads we choose to take. Sometimes I feel we ask too much of her.

On arrival in Bujumbura, Burundi our clutch needed repair. Not a big deal. Just some fluid where it shouldn’t be.
Désirée, the mechanic, used spares and parts we had on hand to rebuild the master and slave cylinders. He did all the work on site, in front of the Botanika Hotel. While working on the clutch, Désirée discovered a crack in Ndoto’s frame causing Scott to exclaim, “Oh my God”, so we had some welding done too.

FIRST ATTEMPT

The next day, halfway through our ascent to Rwanda on the death-defying road that leads to it, despite the repairs, the clutch gave out completely. There was not a gear to be had. But Scott kept trying, pumping his foot on the pedal like Chuck Berry bouncing down the stage while singing Johnny B Good. Inertia did what it should, but it was only seconds before we came to a dead stop. The two-lane road, bordered by stone-covered deep ravines, is practically too steep to believe.  For almost thirty continuously twisty miles, the road gains altitude, almost to the clouds. Traffic consists of a conga line of trucks, buses, and vans. These pass one another on blind curves. Then, there's the bicycles, laden with bundles of charcoal as wide as cars, captained by boys who tear down the hill at break-neck speeds. These “charcoal boys” take their lives in their hands several times a day. At the base of the mountain, in Bujumbura, they latch on to the back of a passing vehicle. Sitting sidesaddle on the bicycle cross bar, they hitch a ride all the way to the top. Three boys even grabbed on to Ndoto but quickly peeled off when we broke down. They coasted backwards until they could grab hold of the next passing truck.

Once at the top of the pass, the boys load up on several enormous sacks of charcoal and race back down the road to find buyers for their load. Burundi is one of the poorest nations in the world so risking your life for even a few pennies, which is what they earn, makes some kind of sense. We couldn’t believe we didn’t witness a fatality.

Guardian angels seem to be working overtime on our behalf too, lately. Within 2 minutes of breaking down, a Rwandan man named Justin, who works for the World Food Program (one of the many NGOs in Rwanda), pulled over to help.

“Thank you for stopping but I’m sure we need a tow. The clutch is totally dead,” Scott said after Justin asked how he could help. Justin used his cell phone to call for a tow truck and drove off wishing us luck. As we waited, we watched the charcoal boys (‘boys on a suicide mission’ Scott called them) whiz by. We witnessed countless near misses as mini buses and trucks passed one another on the blind curve just ahead of where we sat in the road. With nowhere to pull over, we were parked where we stopped, in the right hand lane. I leaned against the mountain with my feet in the ravine, until a sudden downpour caused me to move back into the car. I had to close my eyes against the trucks and bicycles speeding by next to me. It was most terrifying.

The tow truck finally arrived a nerve-racking two hours later and carried us to Azad’s City Motors in Bujumbura. Emile, our rescuer, mechanic, and tow truck driver, and his assistant Bongo both proclaimed, as every single African who has encountered Ndoto does, “This car is strong!” If I had a nickel for every time we’ve heard “This Land Rover is strong!” I would have enough money to buy a Toyota Land Cruiser. 

Emile stopped a few times on the way down the hill to buy meat fresh off carcasses hanging from racks alongside the road. “Much cheaper than in town,” Emile explained in French. Except he said “Nyama!” using the Kiswahili word for meat.  Bongo rode on the truck bed, in Ndoto’s driver, seat saying later he did not like riding backwards One Bit.
The owner of the Botanika hotel, Adrien, was ever accommodating. When I explained the reason we were on our way back to the Botanika to stay for a few nights Adrien exclaimed, “Oh my God!”

Emile diagnosed the clutch problem as a loose connection between the master and slave cylinder. Maybe something Désirée missed, maybe not. But each time Scott had pressed down on the clutch, fluid had spurted out undetected – until it was all gone.
“Très facile! ” An easy fix, Emile said in French.  But now that we had seen the road we would have to conquer in order to visit Rwanda, when Emile dropped us back at the Botanika (where we had checked out 9 hours earlier), we handed him a checklist of items for the car, including a few things I had long wanted fixed such as the passenger side windshield wiper and door lock. For months now, we had been locking the passenger door with a piece of wire, attaching it to a loop on the metal box that holds a second battery under my seat. Each time we arrived at our destination, I would get out of the car and Scott would have to lean across the seat to secure the wire to lock my door. Not that our car is or ever will be Fort Knox, but this was a very good thing to finally have fixed. Emile also sourced much needed replacements for the front brake pads. It would take some days to do all the repairs, but they weren’t wasted.
We spent one day walking around Bujumbura’s markets. Our favorite was the textiles street. Its shops practically burst at the seams with colorful bolts of cotton. Outside the shops, dozens of women and men sat at old treadle operated Singer Sewing Machines, which lined the street, and busily turned raw fabric into appetizing apparel. In Bujumbura I could have designed an outfit, bought fabric, had it custom made, all within 100 meters, and wore it out to dinner that night.
Bujumbura has a surprising number of wonderful restaurants. We spent the next afternoon on the rooftop terrace at the ex-pat frequented Gourmet Café where we discussed spending Christmas in Kigali instead of Juba. We enjoyed several good cappuccinos, one quiche, and free wifi on a patio situated high enough over the city to catch a welcome breeze above the dusty smog.

Two days later we picked up Ndoto. We considered it a blessing that we had broken down, met Azad, Emile, and Bongo and had so many items fixed on the car.  The tow cost $70 and all the work plus parts came to less than $80.

SECOND ATTEMPT

After one more night at the incongruously comfortable Botanika Hotel, our home away from home, off we went on our second attempt at the mountain. Ndoto was running well – better than she had in a years. Some of the people in the villages we passed upslope seemed to recognize us from our first attempt. “Bonjour Muzungu! (Hello, white man!),” shouted one charcoal boy as he zoomed past. Word gets around. Not one charcoal boy grasped on to Ndoto for a lift. Then, just 500 meters from the summit, I kid you not, the gear shift snapped off.
“Nooooo! Not again!” wailed Scott as we slowed to a halt. It was my turn to say, “Oh my God,” as I looked down to see the gear stick lying limp across the floorboard.

                                                    As usual, we drew spectators.

We asked if anyone had a phone we could borrow. “I do,” said a young man. But he had no talk time left on it (a very common problem) so we gave him money to buy time and off he went to buy a mobile phone scratcher card in the nearest village. Twenty minutes later he was back as promised.

“Oh my God,” said Azad when Scott relayed the reason for our need for another tow. Again, Emile was there within 2 hours.  Scott rode in Ndoto’s driver seat this time, because Bongo refused to. Bongo stood out in the rain on the tow truck bed next to Ndoto for the 55-minute ride back to town. Scott got a good look at what we would come to call our Unattainable Summit. “An interesting perspective, being up so high, traveling backwards,” Scott said when we arrived at the repair shop.

Though he lustily eyed the nyama hanging from hooks along the road Emile didn’t stop to shop this time. He did give two women a ride into town. It was cozy with the 4 of us across the front seat.

Back at the shop Emile, and all the guys employed at City Motors,  said, “This car is so strong!” and got to work on welding the stick back on to the base. It was tricky but they got it done. Again, we were charged for towing but Emile didn’t charge for the welding, which gave me pause at first. But it has held tight ever since and doesn’t look like it could be detached with anything other than a grinder.

It was 7PM by then, so off we went back to the Botanika for another sleep. The next morning we got an early start for our third and last attempt. If we didn’t make it this time, we would leave the car in Bujumbura for a week and travel to Rwanda in one of the many mini busses adorned with names like “Yahoo”, “What God Wishes”, and “Volcano” that do the Bujumbura to Kigali route daily.

A WRONG TURN

We still don’t know how we did it. We should have known every twist and turn, every banana stand and nyama market along the route by now, but somehow we took a wrong turn. I took a short video of the banana market.
“This doesn’t look right. It’s too flat,” Scott said. “Plus I’ve yet to see a mini bus, truck, or charcoal boy.” For whatever reason we kept going, though it made no sense at all. We knew that at some point we would have to climb or turn around, but we kept going. “At least it’s different,” Scott said, “and flatter,” I said. We mostly drove in silence, neither of us wanting to say aloud that the sensible thing to do would be to turn back and start over.
We kept going. After 8 kilometers, the tar narrowed and turned to dirt. The hills all around us, no matter how steep, were terraced with every square inch under cultivation. What could be called a road came to dead end at a hectic market where hundreds of people and produce tried to find a match. There were a few motorbikes but there was not a single other vehicle in sight. Scott continued to inch forward and the crowd barely made room for us to pass, but we kept going.
A little later we drove by a school built on a narrow ridge atop two steep valleys. It was an impossible sight. The crest of the hills came right up to the schoolroom doors. As we drove by, the children starred at us in shocked surprise. What are these crazy muzungus doing here? their expressions seemed to say. That was the moment we really knew we were in deep do-do. But our GPS indicated we were on what was, at one time anyway, a route to a Rwanda border and that if we kept going we would hit tar road in 13 kilometers. So we kept driving.

FEELING VULNERABLE

Shortly after passing the school we were descending a particularly slippery patch when a small child appeared from out of nowhere and motioned that we should STOP! Conveniently, there was a patch of flattened earth (a tamped down former mud slide area) where we could pull off the road.
“Camion something-something-something,” said the child while pointing downhill and around the bend. Meanwhile some of the children from the village approached to observe events unfold.
“I’ll stay with the car,” I said, while Scott started down the muddy track to see why we could not pass Go. Ndoto gathered quite a crowd while Scott was gone. No one spoke English, though I’m sure some were remarking how strong Ndoto was. To keep things interesting, I took out my Swahili dictionary which I read aloud. The men who knew some Swahili translated some of the phrases for me such as “Please, thank you, I am stuck in the mud” and “Do you know where I can find a mechanic?” into Kirundi, the language of Burundi. 
I have to admit I was a little nervous. Burundi is incredible poor. I think it’s one of the poorest nations on earth. Most of the children were dressed in torn clothes. All were barefoot. The Burundi school uniform is made from a dull beige fabric that looks scratchy and hot. Every student wore hand me downs. 

One boy climbed on Ndoto’s ladder and toyed with the zipper on the rooftop tent. “Attention!" I said in French. "Hands off the vehicle!”  I didn’t want to loose my cool but I couldn’t let the kids climb all over Ndoto. It wasn’t that I was worried about dents or scratches. (HA!) But Ndoto is like a 7-11 on wheels. All that stuff inside…. It doesn’t matter who we encounter in Africa; a policeman, a child, a beggar, or someone we ask for directions, they all stick their heads in the car and time stands still while they silently window shop. Sometimes, they give voice to what their eyes desire. “Give me some shoes,” said a man working a control gate after he noticed one of Scott’s two pair of shoes (the other pair were on his feet) on a shelf in the rear of the car. “But, I need my shoes,” said Scott, which the man understood completely so off we drove. When we arrived at our campsite on Lake Tanganyika I said to Scott, “I’m going to make some curtains for the back windows. There is no need to tempt people with our shoes or anything else we have on display." Five days later, when we drove back through the same control gate, Scott’s shoes were hidden from view but the man remembered. Again he said, “Give me some shoes,” and he pointed through the window to the exact spot they sat behind the curtain. He even described them! “Yes, I know they are there!” he said with a big grin. “I still need my shoes,” said Scott and off we drove.

There I was, with quite a crowd of people pressing into Ndoto, while Scott was out of sight down the hill. “Madam, I am hungry,” said one of the children. Oh dear. I wanted to unlock the car and give them something. Everything. On board we had pasta, rice, lentils, olive oil, spices, a bag of onions and some canned goods. We also had some packets of crackers. But I would have to pull out bins from underneath to get at any of it. Ndoto and her contents would be at their most vulnerable. And there were so many stomachs! If I put the contents of our mini mart on display I couldn’t think about what might happen. When you drive your own vehicle through Africa, you hear stories. Not always good ones.

I stalled. I have a map of Africa taped to an inside window so we had a geography lesson – countries, capital cities, lakes and rivers. I asked to see the workbook of one of the students; I guessed he was in 5^th grade. One of his subjects was anatomy. With a dull pencil tip he had drawn incredibly good representations of lungs, and of an appendix. His detailed notes were neatly and beautifully written in French. “These drawings are wonderful! Do you want to be a doctor?” No answer. Anything I asked in English sounded like “blah blah blah doctor?” to the children who spoke no English at all. Seeing his workbook gave me pause. This boy was bright and he appeared to be getting a good education. But not for the fact that he was born in an extremely remote part of impoverished Burundi and not in the North America or Europe or Australia, he might indeed become a doctor.(The thing about Africa is, he might still.)

My tension disappeared. I felt disheartened that this bright boy might not have more opportunity in his short life (life expectancy is 56 years in Burundi). I am sometimes accused of wearing rose-colored glasses in Africa but as times like this, hopelessness washes over and clings to me like used motor oil to a kitten.

Just then Scott arrived. He explained that the reason we couldn’t proceed was that the road had washed out and that a truck carrying a ton of sand was stuck in the muck at the bottom of the hill. We weren’t going anywhere until the truck was moved. 
I walked down to take a look at the truck while Scott stayed with the car. Here’s the scene: men dug around the deeply embedded muddy tires, sometimes taking a shovel-load of what seemed to be precious sand from the back and placing it in front of the tires for traction. The driver tried again and again to accelerate out of the bog. Each time the men (around a dozen) pushed the truck from behind shouting encouragement to the truck and driver. This could take days, I thought. One man spoke a little English. He conveyed that since getting the truck un-stuck would help us too we should contribute to the effort. He was right. I walked back up to the car to discuss our options with Scott. “If it starts to rain,” he said looking up at the sky, “we'll need to turn around and go back towards Bujumbura before we get stuck for good. Or maybe we can camp at the school and try again tomorrow.” In any event, the guys needed water so Scott carried a jug of our water back down the hill. About an hour passed. I went on learning Kirundi and tried to think of a way I could get at those crackers. Also, I wanted to make any food donation just as we were leaving and not before. I kept one ear tuned to the sound of the truck at the bottom the hill. The louder and longer the men shouted the greater was the progress up the track. 

I decided if I could get the children to stand away from the vehicle I could get some food out without them clinging to me. I have observed many teachers in Africa and know that children always obey someone who speaks to them in a particular inflection, so I put on my best teacher face, clapped my hands twice, threw my arms out as someone herding geese would and gathered the children into a line on the far side of the road. “Stay here.” I said indicating an invisible line at their toes. I think they thought a very important geography lesson was about to begin because they stood stock-still at rapt attention. As I unlocked the back door they began to inch forward. I shut the door and gently gathered them again to the far side of the road. They got it. I was able to open the door, unload two bins from underneath, extract several packets of biscuits and two bags of lentils, and put the bins away, all while the children waited patiently at the do not pass line. I handed two packets of crackers to the eldest girl and indicated that she should take them to the men working down the hill. After a bit more pantomimed explanation on my part, the children moved in a tight cluster down the road. 
Every mother, granny or auntie the world over knows that when children are too quiet, they are probably doing up to something. The silence was deafening. I walked down the slippery road and as I came around the bend I found the children quietly, quickly, and hungrily dividing the crackers fairly among themselves. 
Just then I heard the truck on the move again, this time with more gusto. The men were shouting as if their team had just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl.  I quickly returned to Ndoto and readied the remaining packets of crackers and bags of lentils to give to the men. The truck groaned past me with all the men, including Scott, shouting and pushing and sweating. Once the truck was on somewhat graspable soil I distributed the crackers and beans to the men. They were as eager as the children had been. One man was particularly interested in the zip lock bag that held the beans and he repeatedly checked that the zip was doing its job.

The rest of what turned out to be 7-hour day on the road was anything but uneventful. After we drove through the quagmire where the truck had temporarily taken root, the track became even more narrow and rutted. It there were to be another vehicle coming the other way it would be impossible to pull off the road. But what am I saying. In six hours we saw a total of two vehicles. The stuck truck, and a Toyota Prado. I was used to strange coincidences happening in Africa, so it didn’t surprise me that we encountered the Prado just minutes after we put the Landy into a deep crevice. 
Ndoto had been nicely straddling an eroded ditch (a ditch deep enough to resemble a mechanic’s bay) in the center of the road when one wall suddenly collapsed inward dropping the passenger side of the Landy three feet down into the rut. Ndoto was in a rut so deep that the right front tire was completely up in the air and the back wheel was splayed out at such a weird angle that I thought we were done for good. No tow truck was coming to rescue us here. As we scrabbled our way out of the vehicle to survey the situation people began appearing from the nearby village. They wanted to help but they wanted money first.  Much discussion in French ensued with Scott interjecting, “First dig, then pay, see?” every few minutes. Once again I felt a little nervous. So many people surrounding Ndoto with her skirt up. And I was frustrated. Why all the talking when we were just getting more bogged by the minute? “Okay! I’ll do it myself,” I announced to the crowd and I began carrying stones and chucking them under the car near the tires. Dead silence. Africans can’t stand to see a muzungu woman toiling while they stand idle. Scott said, “Tris if you would just sit on the hood on the driver's side I think we can drive out of here.” It was at this moment that the Prado rambled up and stopped. I tossed another stone under the car and walked over to the occupants – four well-dressed Burundians on their way to Bujumbura. “Bonjour. Ca va? Parlez vous Anglais?” I asked. Their English was perfect. Ever the optimist I asked, “How is the road in the direction you have come?”

“This road is very bad. I advise you to turn back the way you came, to Bujumbura. Your vehicle cannot drive on this road.” He pointed behind him. “500 meters from here the road has mostly disappeared down the mountain. You will not get through.” Africans don't like giving someone bad news so for him to tell me that it was impossible for us to advance on the road meant he was honestly concerned.

“But you have come that way,” I said.

“Yes, but our car is… stronger.” He meant 'newer' but I got the picture. “And it was very difficult for us to pass. I wasn’t sure we would make it.”

As we spoke, I was unaware that the crowd had grown and, perhaps shamed into action by a stone lugging muzungu woman, had taken action. Suddenly, unbelievably, miraculously, Ndoto with Scott at the wheel moved past me. With nothing but sheer brute force, men, boys and soldiers from the village had physically lifted Ndoto out of the ditch and carried her forward on to solid land. I’ve never been so stunned. I looked back into the Prado. They too looked surprised. “Maybe you can get people like these to help you further ahead when you get stuck but we still advise you to turn back to Bujumbura.” They drove off, the wider wheel base on the Prado negotiating the gap without difficulty.

Scott had distributed our few remaining Burundi francs to the men who had lifted Ndoto and only a young teacher named Innocent and a few children remained. Innocent stayed behind to wish us well. “God Bless you,” he said. 

I conveyed to Scott what the people in the Prado had said about our chances of continuing on the road and that 500 meters ahead was “a very bad patch.” Again Scott walked down the road to investigate while I stayed with the Landy. Ten minutes later he was back. “I think we can manage. Our narrow wheel base will work to our advantage up ahead,” he said with a smile. Plus our GPS insisted there was tar road now only 7 kilometers ahead. “If need be we can walk seven kilometers to the road,” I said thinking ahead to plan B. Actually, I think we were up to plan F by this point.

One boy remained with us. I asked in a mixture of French and pantomime if the road ahead was bon, good. “Non!” he said with feeling. But we carried on with the boy running alongside for a kilometer. Three times he alerted us to STOP!, get out, and survey the road. Some of the time I walked along with the boy. After we surveyed one curve where the side of the road indeed disappeared down the mountain I walked back to the car to get the camera. The boy, thinking I was going to ride inside with Scott said, “No Madam!” and indicated that I should stay safely next to him. Gallantry lives on in remote Africa! Scott drove slowly around the bend and I did film it but evidently I couldn’t bear to watch. Most of the footage is of the muddy road.

Bogged on a slippery uphill blind curve.

“Fini? No more bad road?” I asked the boy. “Non!” He indicated there was one more obstacle ahead. Again we stopped. It was another slippery uphill blind curve. Ndoto made it halfway around before bogging in the squishy mud. Each time Scott inched forward the boy and I threw large stones under the back tires. Ndoto slid back against the rocks, Scott inched forward and so forth until Ndoto was on solid ground.

“Fini?” I asked again.

“Oui! Yes! Fini!”

The last six kilometers were sometimes slippery, sometimes rutted, always narrow and steep. 
Finally after seven hair-raising unpredictable hours we could glimpse a group of people and goods at the crest of a hill. One last steep upgrade with a hairpin right turn at the top, and we joined the illusive tar road. I thought I would ask Scott to stop the car so I could get out and kiss the ground but the road,, though tarred was still incredibly steep so it was best to carry on. Plus, I’ve been French-kissed by a giraffe, which is as icky as you can imagine. I’m sure kissing a tar road in Africa would be far ickier.

“You’re incredible,” I said to Scott as we chugged uphill. 
All through the day with every rut, every bend, every bog my admiration for Scott grew.  “Nothing today has fazed you one bit.”

“It was fun!” he said. “What a great day!” Scott exclaimed as we rounded the bend.

I looked at him with wonder. My heart swelled. How did I manage to luck out with such a man? 
“I’m so turned on right now,” I said reaching over to give his leg a goat squeeze. But the road was relentless so, eyes ahead, we concentrated on our ascent to Rwanda.

An hour later we arrived at the Burundi-Rwanda Frontier with no other issues other than having to add a quart, or two, of oil halfway there.

That night in Butare we celebrated with a Primus, or two, before bedtime.

Car Ferry From Entebbe to Ssese Islands is Out of Service Until Feb or Mar 2014

Uganda Africa Traveler Update:

The car ferry from Entebbe to the Ssese Islands on Lake Victoria in Uganda has just gone OUT OF SERVICE for a few months. The Passenger ferry is still running but if you want to take your vehicle, you must take the (very nice and free) passenger and car ferry out of Masaka (Nyendo). The ferry, The Pearl, docks at Bukakata. Journey to Bugala Island takes only 30 minutes. Ship leaves promptly. Don't be late!

A nice place to camp is at the Ssese Island Hotel near Kalangala.

Note that the Hornbill Camp is CLOSED. German ex-pat owner has been imprisoned on the island for the last 5 weeks. He and his wife Tina ran Hornbill Camp for 18 years but a property dispute with the resort next door (The Pearl) resulted in the Hornbill Camp being smashed to bits in December 2013 just as guests rose for breakfast.

If you visit the island any time soon stop in and give Dika your support or just say hi. In any event, a visit to a Ugandan Prison especially the one on Bugala Island where some of the prisoners are free range and ducks quack around the feet of the inmates, can be interesting.

Teresa
Jinja, Uganda

The Rainy Season Red Lagoon Roads of Zambia

The day started out badly with the discovery of a broken spring leaf. Then Scott sneezed and farted at the same time – never a good idea when your drinking water comes from Lake Tanganyika.

We had a long drive ahead of us from Ndole Bay to Kasama on one of the worst roads in Zambia. After two hours of organ rearranging dips and drops at an average speed of 19 kilometers an hour we hadn’t gotten very far. Suddenly we began hearing a swarming mass of cicadas all around us. Only it wasn’t cicadas, it was our vehicle. In the past when the Landy makes “funny” sounds like whirring or grinding or ticking we look at each other and say, “Let’s give it a moment and see if it stops.” Usually the sound disappears without us ever knowing what caused it. But this time the hissing was accompanied by extreme heat coming from below the gear stick – so extreme that when we stopped the Landy at the top of a rise I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the back. We were between sparsely populated villages and nothing was on the road but lagoon size potholes so we began to explore the source of the noise and heat. I started looking through the three Land Rover manuals we have on board while Scott looked under the car. The closest thing to the cicada noise I could find in the manual was “loud whirring”. “It might be the gear box,” I said, “maybe we’re low on fluid.”

“Oh no.” Scott said from beneath the car. “We lost the plug, the bolt that holds the fluid in. It must have been ejected on that really bad pothole back there.”

“Which pothole? The first one, or one of the 193 after?”

We searched through our collection of jiggled off nuts, bolts and screws in the toolbox trying to find a close match. No luck. So we began looking for a bolt we could steal from somewhere else on the vehicle. The ones connecting the bumper were too small. The high lift jack bolt was almost the right size but when Scott tried it, it wouldn’t catch the threads. A while later, two men came along. Once we explained/pantomimed the problem, they wanted to help. At first they just got under the car with Scott and watched what he did. Then they joined me topside in looking for a bolt to poach from somewhere else on the car. They didn’t speak English but hearing Scott ask me for various tools and watching him they quickly saw the advantages of our equipment and they began requesting “vice grip”, “spanner”, and “wrench” as if they were medics on the TV series M.A.S.H. demanding sutures or a scalpel STAT!

Dennis unscrewed the bolt holding the bumper. “See? Too small,” Scott repeated showing them the size we needed. 

Meanwhile three more men toting hoes and machetes came along the road. When Dennis saw them he quickly covered the tools and toolbox with our small tarp and communicated with “no no” hands and a low voice that it wouldn’t be a good idea for these men to see our valuables. But the men stopped and soon Dennis’ desire to find a bolt that would match won out over his concern so the tools came out and the bolt from the high lift jack came off again. I remarked to one of the recent arrivals that I liked his unbelievably shiny lilac colored shoes with a silver orb and cross buckle. Immediately they looked at my shoes, an old pair of Keens. I could tell they were discussing the merits of owning such a pair of shoes. Often Africans we meet ask us to give them our shoes. They all stared at my feet and I knew they would have asked for them if they knew the words. I could tell that one of them said, “Eee! But her feet are too big anyway!” because they all laughed and went back to watching Scott or unscrewing bolts on the car. Scott found a likely replacement in at the bottom of his toolbox but it was too thick and far too long so he got out the saw and began cutting through the metal by hand. Only a man would think of this. He put one foot on top of the bumper, placed the too long bolt under his left foot and sawed. Sweat dripped from his face and his blue t-shirt, covered with red earth from lying under the car became damp. Dennis took over sawing and after ten more minutes we had a shorter length of threads. “Everybody, pray!” I said. But it was too big so out came the saw again to slice a channel at the top. “Maybe I can squeeze it in,” Scott hoped. 

But it was still too big. In the end, he used the bolt off the high lift jack, which was too small, but he fashioned a sleeve from a piece of spare gas hose that gave the bolt enough bite to hold. Meanwhile I had been looking through the manuals for the location of where to add gearbox fluid (miraculously, we had an almost full, never used, jug of gearbox fluid with us). “OK, ‘the filter plug is located at the rear of the transfer box’,” I said reading from the manual, item 37-2.

I dug out the little funnel we use to fill our water bottles and Dennis and the four other men made one end of the gas hose fit into the funnel neck by slicing away the plastic sheath using Scott’s Leatherman knife. There was discussion about the odd looking tool, the knife and it’s sharpness. They poured the really stinky fluid in to the funnel while Scott, under the car again, held the low end of the gas hose to the fill plug opening. 

It took ages for two liters to find it’s way to the gearbox and when the funnel was empty for the last time, Dennis even put his lips on the hose and blew the last dregs of oil down the tube. “Uh, that stuff is toxic,” I said while bent over and fake puking. “It’ll make you sick.” Dennis wiped his lips and another of the men brought me the dust filled top end of a small water bottle, cap in place and asked for a little oil. “Bicycle,” he said. He used his shirt to wipe out the dust but you couldn’t tell afterwards because his shirt, like the shirts of all the men, had long ago took on the rusty red color of the roads of Zambia’s rainy season. Two and a half hours had passed.

“Zicomo! Thank you!" we said. A little money and a box of Eet Sum More biscuits was appreciated, but they squealed with enthusiasm when I said I would take their photo in front of the Landy. 

Off we went, stopping every 5 then 10 then 40 kilometers to make sure the McGiver-ed bolt was holding. “I’ve been waiting for the third bad thing to happen today and now it has,” said Scott.
“Three? I can only think of two, the broken spring and now the gearbox. What’s the third thing?”I asked.

“When I sneeze-farted,” he said.

“Oh, you’re right. That’s the turd thing.”

The road only became worse. Our final destination kept changing, as the day grew longer.

We hoped to make it to the town of Mporokosa, a large, dusty, out in the middle of nowhere town, before dark, and we did. We stopped at the only accommodation listed in our GPS, The Holiday Rest House. It was Friday night and eight men sat on the porch of the hotel drinking beer. The place had a weird vibe but beggars can’t be choosy so Scott went inside to inquire if we could camp there. Meanwhile, I watched the men on the porch and the few women lingering around the men. I began to sense that the Holiday Rest House wasn’t what it seemed. Yep, we had pulled in to the “No-tell Motel.” We had camped on the grounds of a brothel in Addis Ababa Ethiopia once and I wasn’t excited about a repeat. As Scott walked back over to the car, a heavily intoxicated man, with the most blood shot eyes I’ve ever seen, met him at my window and, with all the concentration he could muster said, “I would advise you not to stay here tonight.”

“Oh. Really? Why?”  
“I am a teacher by profession and I have to advise you that it would be better if you do not stay here tonight. It's not...safe” he said coming up with the best word he could think of to convince us to leave and making him our second Good Samaritan of the day. We drove away knowing that now we would have to bush camp. 

At 5:30 we began looking for a good bush camp – secluded, off the road, not close to a village. But we discovered that while there was plenty of seclusion – the bush was like a jungle – the earth was so sticky from the rains that we were sure to get bogged once we pulled off the road. Driving after dark in Africa is never the best idea but we hadn’t seen any wildlife and the route was not heavily populated by people so we were unlikely to hit anything, and in 10 hours we had seen only 5 other vehicle so risk of a head on was minimal, so we kept driving. The road continued to be a backbreaking chain of rusty red lagoon sized potholes inexplicably interspersed with short sections of brand new tarmac. Every time we found ourselves on tarmac our sails filled with wind again and we’d say, “If it’s like this, we might as well drive all the way to Kasama!” Then we would suddenly be on a road so deeply potholed that we felt like a ship being tossed side to side by stormy seas.

  At 10PM, after 15 hours on the road, the thing we have most worried about the entire trip happened. The road suddenly became a ravine that was narrowing to a chasm. The driver side wheels dropped into the abyss and N’doto heaved heavily to the right. “Nooooo! Hang on, we’re going over!” Scott said struggling with the steering wheel and willing N’doto to take flight. I held tight to the window frame and braced my feet against the floor. Just as we could feel the momentum of no return, THUD!, the front right wheel sank deeply into a hole and we came to an abrupt, 30-degree angle, stop. We sat in silence. Scott was trapped, his door up against the ravine wall.  It was decide that I would climb out to see the damage. The tire was stuck in deep. There was no way we were driving forward. “Maybe we can back up.” But the car wouldn’t start. Then, a miracle. After only ten minutes we could see headlights coming towards us. I’m ashamed to say that my first thought was “Will they help us, or hurt us.” Soon a van stopped above us. Four well-dressed Good Samaritan Zambians came over. “We’re stuck,” I said. Scott called, “Hello!” from inside the car and crawled out the passenger side door. One of the men suggested we push the car backwards. I got behind the steering wheel but the the car wouldn’t budge. We were bogged in tight and the angle wasn’t helping any either. “How about a jack?” another man asked. One bolt shy from our earlier repair, it was easy to detach the high lift jack from the rear of the car. Three women appeared from the van and began collecting stones to place under the front wheel. The jack was released and after 10 minutes the car finally started. I put it in reverse and drove backwards along the narrow valley trying to keep the wheels from sliding back down while the driver of the van directed, “Now turn your wheels like this,” he said using his hands. “Now go straight back!” When it felt like N’doto was going over again I whimpered and Mulunga pointed at Scott and said, “Now I think he should drive.” Once Scott was behind the wheel it was decided that climbing the bank and going forward might be better than reversing. I held my breath as Scott revved the engine and the Landy labored up the bank. While Scott drove onto flat road I thanked Mulunga for stopping. “I’m a nurse”, he said, “I had to stop. Your vehicle was at such an angle I thought someone might be hurt.” (We’re completely fine, only had to change our undies.)

Two hours later, around midnight, after 16 hours on the road, exhaust pipe growling, cracked spring leaf shuddering, gearbox kaput, we bush camped just outside the one traffic light size town of Kasama. “Without days like this, it wouldn’t be a true Africa overland adventure,” said Scott with a smile as we climbed into our rooftop tent.

As uncomfortable and sometimes scary the day had been we felt strangely satisfied with the way things had worked out. We had kept our cool, problem solved nicely (I just kept asking myself, What would Martha O’Kane do?), and met a lot of nice people who didn’t ask us for anything. A lot more good than bad had come from the experience. It still is a Safari Jema. And the next morning serendipity – always a theme in our travels – struck big. The one auto shop in town is owned and run by Michael a Zambian who drove, built, owned, and maintained several old Landys just like ours over the years. “I can rebuild a gearbox blindfolded!” he said. He’s a great guy and the parts and labor are more than reasonable so we took a room at the Kasama Lodge (where all the other guests are Zambian Government officials) and we’re getting a laundry list of repairs and delayed maintenance done on the car over the next few days before heading into Tanzania and Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda. South Sudan, the newest country in the world, is on the list of “want to go” but we’ll decide that after we get information on the condition of the one road in the entire country. It wouldn’t be hard to get lost but we’re not excited about subjecting the Landy to any more part breaking roads than we have to.

Onward!

Scott and Tris

Kasama, Zambia

Bread, Ice Cream and Gin

(Read, Trip Interruptus, N'doto Seized first)

Our time in California was both tough and nurturing. My niece Teresa let us stay in her backyard cottage amongst apple trees and pear trees and hummingbirds. Every morning we walked a few feet through her garden to a cradle of comfort food, her kitchen. During our stay she baked apple pie and 10 (TEN) loaves of homemade bread. Not bread machine bread. Real, fed from starter for several days, hand kneaded every 30 minutes for 4 hours, delicious, made with love, topped with Irish Butter, good for coping, Italian bread. She brought home chutney made by her colleague at Yahoo! “The French lady” and was inspired to create her own chutneys. We sat around Teresa’s coffee table tasting 3 variations with Brie or Gorgonzola or triple cream Cowgirl Creamery Red Hawk. Some twilights we had a Gin and Tonic and every night we ate ice cream -- pumpkin, chocolate or mint flavored.

We also received incredible support and much appreciated distraction from my family. They understood why we were home and made no demands on us. My brother Sean made everything easier when he lent us his truck for the duration of our stay. My comedienne niece Clare drove all the way up from LA just to see us. (Not really, but I like to think that she would even if she didn’t have a gig in San Jose. I love her to pieces.) I had BLT’s with my brother Joe who lent an ear and made me laugh. My nephew Kevin and his bride Stacie offered love, food and wine, and I was able to visit with my sister-in-law Ann and see that in 7 months my nephew Colin has become even more handsome and kind-hearted. We had “Pizzeria Night” at Teresa’s with my gorgeous and fun-loving niece Briget and her sweet Otis with his charming children all. Dear neighbors opened their hearts and homes to us and listened to stories of Africa and of loss until it was time for us to go. It felt very strange to be home, yet not really back.

Most every day Scott made the drive from San Jose to Fremont to sit by his mother’s bedside asking her if there was anything she needed, or he’d read to her – letters she had written while living in Mexico for 10 years, or passages from a favorite book ­­­until one of his incredibly tireless and doting siblings replaced him. Then, as is no doubt true for every mother the world over, Jane, all her children about her, sort of perked up. She began to eat a little and smiled when told she was loved. As the days and weeks went on Jane’s condition became so unchanged that one-day, after almost 4 weeks of vigil, John returned home to Texas and Scott came home and booked return flights to Africa. “Jane is a very strong woman,” said the nurse. Lindy and Brian, who live near Jane, would continue attending to their mom as they have been for the last year.

We made our way back to Lusaka on four flights. We missed our last connection, the one that was supposed to get us to the Zambian Customs office at noon. Instead we arrived at the Lusaka airport 3 hours late, sure that everyone would have left work, or “knocked off” as they say here, by the time we would get to Customs. It was Friday afternoon and rush hour had begun. Scott was having kittens. We finally found a taxi driver and as much as we wanted to get to the office as fast as possible, the last thing you want to tell your driver in Africa is, “make haste!” so we just said, “We must get to the Customs Office before it closes.” Scott sat beside Abel staring at the road, with each slow kilometer becoming more anxious. I sat in the back looking out the window and commented how beautifully green Zambia had become since we left. “Yes, the rains have begun,” said Abel.  “Don’t worry,” he added. “Office workers wouldn’t knock off until 5PM, even on a Friday.” and we drove into the Customs Office parking lot with only minutes to spare. We looked anxiously into the lot behind, “the warehouse” where all the seized vehicles were parked. I swear, the sun came out from behind the clouds. The Range Rover was still there watching over N’doto! I cannot describe the relief we felt. Abel parked under a tree and helped me carry bags to our Landy while Scott, stamped copy of our letter of understanding tightly clasped in his hand, went inside. I peeked in the windows and saw that everything was exactly as we had left it. Even the GPS charger still lay on the front seat. I had a set of keys so I opened the rear door and explored. The stuff in the secret place was there. Even the stuff in the super secret place was there. I took out one of our camp chairs and sat in the shade of a seized semi truck and waited. Twenty minutes later Scott still had not appeared. I walked around the lot, exploring how we would drive out. In front of N’doto was a moat. No kidding. A moat. And behind N’doto was a Toyota Corolla parked almost directly across her stern. I looked for something to span the moat, something strong enough to drive a Landy across. There were some huge pieces of concrete lying about but there was no way I could have lifted them. So I found the Windex and started cleaning the windows. I had just moved on to buffing the headlights when Scott came across the lawn with a stack of stamp-laden paperwork and the keys. Success!

“Hooray!” I said. “You were gone so long I was starting to get worried.”

“I had to go to several offices. Each time I was directed to another office they’d say, ‘but they might have knocked off by now’. Fortunately everyone was still there. And they all remembered us. They said,  ‘Oh yes. The medical emergency Landy.”

“There’s one little problem,” and I pointed to the Corolla blocking our escape.

“Arrgh!” Scott clutched his head in both hands. As I had done, he briefly looked for something to span the moat. “I’ll ask them to move the Toyota,” he said hesitantly. Going back in felt risky. We had the keys. We had the stamps. We were in the clear! If Scott went back inside, someone might think of a reason the Landy had to remain seized or say, “Come back Monday.”

Scott soon reappeared followed by Alfred, a customs official who had come to examine the problem. “The man with the keys has knocked off,” said Scott.

Another man came out to see the trapped Landy. The three men studied the gap between the Corolla and the back end of the dark blue semi truck in silence as if working a puzzle. “It is not possible to move this blue truck. Keys do not exist for this truck,” Alfred said. He moved to the Corolla and spread his arms to measure the gap. He stood back and pondered.

 After a time Scott said, “You know, if we had enough guys, we might be able to ‘bounce’ the Corolla over a few feet. We used to do that all the time at my fraternity where I lived at University,” he added. 

“If you do that, I’ll video it.” I said and for some reason this made solving the dilemma more interesting to Alfred.

There followed a lot of discussion, and pointing, and measuring, and arm waving, and casual weight testing of the Toyota.

Then Scott, beaming with the satisfaction of a man who has come up with a brilliant idea, began wind-milling his arms like a preacher inciting fervor from his flock, said again with more gusto, “If we can get MORE GUYS, I think we can bounce this car over!” Alfred left to get more men.

Soon there were 5 more men (pedestrians on their way to the long distance bus station next door) gathered around the Corolla. All were keen. The first attempt fell flat due to the fact that the Corolla had one. A flat. “Okay, so we must pick (peek) it up and move it.” Alfred was in charge now. “One, two, THREE!” (thrrree) and they all heaved at once. “Again!” commanded Alfred. The female security guard left her post and came to help. “Again! Once more!” Then the tape measure came out and all could see that there was just enough space now for the Landy to back out. All it took was 6 heaves.

I got behind the wheel while the men, hands spinning chest level as if they were at the helm, directed, “Madam, now turn (tun) your wheel all the way. Turn it. Turn it. Now, straight, straight. Strrraight!”

“Zicomo! Thank you!” I exclaimed when I was finally through the narrows nearly shy one side mirror. Scott wanted to show his gratitude. “Thank you so much! I’d like to buy you all a beer, or a Coke.” But when he held out a large bill, the only denomination we had, no one rushed to take it. It amounted to around $3 for each man. Were they hesitant because they would have trouble breaking the bill and dividing it fairly? Did they think they would be in trouble with Alfred for accepting the money?  Alfred took a few steps back and threw his hands in the air; he didn’t want part of anything that looked like a bribe. Finally one man reached out with a smile and accepted the cash. They moved away as one body, strangers joined together by a Toyota Corolla and twenty dollars.

Around midnight on November 17, two weeks after we arrived back in Zambia, Jane, hopefully comforted and gratified that all her children had come to say goodbye, passed peacefully away.

It’s strange to be back, but not really home. 

Tris,

Ndole Bay Lodge, Lake Tanganyika, Zambia

Trip Interruptus, N'doto Seized

Trip Interruptus, N’doto Seized

It’s happened before and will no doubt happen again. Someone we love becomes seriously ill and we have to end our trip early or return home for a few weeks. That’s what happened last month when we received word that Scott’s mom, unwell for some time, was entering hospice back home in California.

We drove south along the Great North Road, back the way we had come. We talked about which airport we would use and where we would store our vehicle. When we arrived at Pioneer Camp outside of Lusaka owner Paul Barnes was more than happy watch over our Landy during our absence. It seemed our exit from Africa would be fairly straightforward. Except for one thing. Each time we cross a border we apply for a Temporary Import Permit (T.I.P.) for our 40-year-old Land Rover and our T.I.P. was 3 days from expiring. We looked up the penalties for overstaying a T.I.P. in Zambia ($150 per day - not a figure that made us comfortable asking for forgiveness rather than permission) and we searched the location of Zambian Customs in Lusaka where we would appeal for an extension. After an hour in the tedious slow ooze that is Lusaka traffic flow, we were on the second floor, room 5 of the Zambia Port Customs Office seated across from Mr. Dennis Mwikisi.

Dennis was tired. Or he seemed tired. Or sick. He slumped, half draped over his desk. He could barely keep his eyes open as we told our story. His mumbled words came from beneath his right hand, which he periodically ran over his face and head as if he were trying to wipe us, and our tale of woe, from his memory. His other arm looked tired too as it was working to hold up his head.

“Not possible,” Dennis burbled into his hand after we requested an extension. We politely implored. After some discussion and, “Sorry, but would you please repeat that please?” Dennis, eager to be rid of us so he could rest, granted a 30-day extension with the proviso that our vehicle be stored in the Customs Vehicle Seizure lot, not at Pioneer camp. 

“Isn’t there any way we can get a longer extension? And can’t we leave our vehicle at Pioneer?”  Scott pushed.

“No,” gasped Dennis. I began to worry that Dennis would expire before our T.I.P. would. His head was almost flat on his desk. Then, from the depths of his responsibilities as a bureaucrat, he suddenly gathered enough strength to say, “Go to the head office on Cairo Road and ask for Mr. Christopher Mwango. Perhaps he can help you.”

So off we went, to the heartbeat of Lusaka that is Cairo Road.

Mr. Mwango was not anywhere near as lethargic as Dennis. Christopher was happily busy at his desk, sitting upright and beaming as broadly as the man in the photo above him – Mr. Michael Sata, the President of Zambia. Nothing held his head up but his neck.

“Fine, fine. Yes, how can I help you?” he said brightly after we introduced ourselves and asked after his health. We explained our situation.

“Oh no, I’m very sorry to hear your news, but extensions past 30 days are impossible.” He paused. “You might see Mr. Dennis Mwikisi at the Port office and inquire with him.”

“We have been to see Mr. Mwikisi and he suggested we see you. The thing is, my mother’s condition is…indefinite. It would be helpful if we had more than 30 days.” And Scott lobbed and Christopher returned until Mr. Mwango finally agreed to extra days. “But you must return to Mr. Mwikisi who will arrange the necessary paperwork. I will phone him now and tell him you are coming. You’ll be charged a storage fee of 18 Kwatcha ($3.00) per day until you return to Zambia.” He rose and extended his hand indicating the match was over. “In any event,” he said merrily, “technically speaking, three days from now, when your T.I.P. expires, we will seize your vehicle.”

We thanked Mr. Mwango for his time and alertness. As I walked out of the office I stopped in the doorway and as an afterthought said, “By the way, what happens if we aren’t back in the time allotted?”

“Then,” he said gravely, “you must buy your vehicle back at public auction.”

“Hurry,” I said to Scott as he drove back towards Mr. Mwikisi’s office. “By the time we get there, Dennis could be on life support!”

We stopped at an Internet Café and quickly composed a “letter of understanding” detailing our discussions with Mr. Mwikisi and Mr. Mwango. “It’s probably only worth the paper it’s written on but it can’t hurt and it might help,” Scott said as a second copy printed.

Back at Dennis’ office we were cheered to see that he was awake, if not more erect. Scott presented the extension agreement we had prepared.  Dennis, elbows splayed out on the desk and holding the document in both hands, not only read the agreement word by word he corrected the spelling of his last name! Then he did something you long to see a government official do when you are requesting the impossible. He stamped it! He stamped the copy too and handed it back to Scott.

“All right,” (all rrrrright) he said, eyes once again at half-mast. “Bring your vehicle tomorrow and I will show you where you can park (pock) it.”

Subdued, we drove back to Pioneer Camp. As we neared the gate Scott turned to me. “What’s the worst that can happen?” Then we talked about all the bad things that could happen. The car could be striped. It could be stolen. If we overstayed our extension we would have to buy her back at auction. What would that cost? We surrendered to the unknown. “It is what it is,” said Scott. “We really have no choice.”

The next morning as Scott drove away I said farewell to our Landy and everything inside her, all we owned in Africa: tools, bedding, a library of books, pots and pans, shoes, clothes, and a pantry full of food. Scott told me later that he parked her next to a seized Range Rover, which for some reason, made me feel better. As if her younger yet more successful brother would watch over her while we were away. The next day we flew back to California not knowing how long we would be gone and wondering if we would ever see N’doto again.

Next: Bread, Ice-Cream and Gin

My Videos of Africa are now on YouTube Channel

Videos of the journey "Around Africa in a 40-year-old Land Rover named N'doto" can now be seen at Teresa's YouTube Channel. Videos include the Landy crossing the Luangwa River by hand-pulled Pontoon Ferry, Prides of lions, The Dancing bridge of Kamanjoma, Elephant charges, Hyenas feasting and much more.
http://www.youtube.com/user/Teresaokane

More videos in production (with my new camera so you won't have to listen to the sand grinding in the mechanism whenever I zoom...): Climbing Kilimanjaro,  Flying a light sport aircraft while viewing animals below, The island of Lamu, the countries of Uganda, Rwanda, and South Sudan and more.

Enjoy!

Life Aboard N'doto

It’s not a walk in the woods living in a 40-year-old Land Rover. Not a cushy ride, or a temperature controlled one either. What policemen laughingly refer to as my A/C, is a intermittently working (never when it’s hot) small dash-mounted house fan with vibrant blue blades. Sometimes it spontaneously and unexpectedly comes to life, usually the moment after I have cleansed my face with a TLC Deep Cleanse 3- in-1 Cleanser, Toner, Moisturizer Facial Wipe. The resulting plume of dust sticks to my face like static on a nylon slip. After that, nothing but a Huggies Aloe Strong and Stretchy Wipe will remove the heavy layer of grime on my face.

Living in N’doto is about as far away from a spa day as one could get.  Rubber seal that once surrounded all the doors and windows has been replaced by gaps as wide as my pinkie finger. There is also a silver dollar sized hole in the floorboard near the gearbox that spews a puff of dust and smoke into the car every time we start her up. Particles of tawny colored talcum-powder-quality dust cover the seats, the bookcase, the storage bins and every other surface inside of N’doto like a coat of paint. When we wash our clothes, a significant amount of African topsoil is washed down the drain. We could avoid most of the dust if we stuck to the tar roads but we prefer the dirt, sand, or gravel tracks because they seem to take us to the most beautiful places. Like the Old Petauke Road, worth every grain of grit collected along its 180 kilometer, off road, 9-hour drive. Or where we are now, camped along the Luangwa River in Zambia one of the best riverbanks in the world to view wildlife, read, write and have a gin and tonic. Elephants abound. So much so that instead of the usual passports, cash and other documents that travelers turn in for safekeeping at reception, safes at camps along the Luangwa River are full of citrus fruit brought in by campers who forget that elephants will do anything to get at a juicy orange. Just the other night a shell-shocked novice camper fumed, “An elephant broke into our Toyota and helped himself to whatever he wanted!” They only stayed one night. I locked our oranges, and other strong smelling food in the camp bar safe but the gin and tonic remains in our fridge chilled and ready for sundowners at 5. Yes, we have a fridge! It’s 12 volt, small, and always dusty on the outside but inside, the beer, wine, veggies, cheese, meats, and juice keep cold and food stays fresh even a day or two past the use by date.

Mornings, beginning at dawn, are easy and unrushed. We don’t have much on board in the luxury department but one thing we can’t do without is good coffee so we enjoy two cups of French Press coffee with two rusks – an African hard, crunchy dunk-in-your coffee staple - apiece each morning before starting our day. Lunch is a picnic. Chips provide salty crunch.

What’s in the dashboard? Peaceful Sleep insect repellent (elephants hate it too so if we are bush camping I usually give a blast to the windows and doors before we retire), toilet paper for the nose and/or “other”, Huggies Strong and Stretchy (so many uses I can’t list them here), an old Advil bottle filled with a combination of ibuprofen and aspirin, what I call my Obama-care because it’s wrapped in a Obama for President ’08 bumper sticker, a Chinese version of Vaseline Intensive Care Body Lotion, sunglass and eyeglass cases, head torch, pens and pencils, a glue stick, GPS, and a camera fill in any gaps. Scott keeps a wildlife sound recorder in his cup holder; mine holds a stainless steel water bottle. We can get clean drinking water at most every camp. Usually it’s borehole water so might taste a little chalky but it is clean.

We also have a library on board. It’s filled with guidebooks, wildlife reference books, our dangerous game log books, and books we have been given (thank you Brian Block and Karl Nutt) or swapped for at various camps along the way.

In the slot inside my door, there is a poo shovel, a Southern Africa map, an Eastern and Southern Africa map, and a map of the entire continent of Africa, just in case we get super motivated to head further north than Kenya.

The front seat, kind of a bench seat really, is covered in gray pleather (plastic leather) and I’m sure at one time it provided some kind of cushioning though now it is as flat as a pancake. We let each other know its time for a break when one of us exclaims; “My ass is numb!” which is pretty frequent. The back seat isn’t really a seat at all. It’s more of a perch. We acquired it from the man who installed our second carburetor (we are now on our third.)

The seat came out of one of several old Series lll Land Rovers that lay scattered in his yard like fallen soldiers. It’s one of those L-shaped bench seats that used to go in the far back of Land Rovers for sideways sitting. But Scott found a creative way to attach it to the false floor boards behind the front passenger seat, next to the library so that we would have a super uncomfortable place for people to sit in the back. We added a few inches added to the seat and had it re-upholstered in Hoedspruit so now it is a super uncomfortable, yet more cushioned place to sit in the back. We have found that it is perfect for small African children, though those not yet potty trained are relegated to the pleather (washable) seats in front. (See No Pampers North of the Limpopo to see why.)

Giving rides to people in the bush, especially to old woman, has become a regular thing. Woman walk incredible distances carrying heavy loads, babies, and Africa on their backs. 

They rarely speak English. Since our doors are very difficult to open Scott comes around to help them out when we arrive at their villages. One African woman was so old and frail, Scott had to lift her into and out of the car. She must have been walking more than an hour in the dust and heat before we came along. Men, woman, and children sitting in the shade of a tree of her village were gobsmacked to see this tall blond haired blue-eyed shorts and t-shirt clad chauffeur pull alongside, open the passenger door and extend a hand to her as if she were royalty. There is usually applause, two claps of cupped hands and a wave of the hand before our passengers set off on another narrow path that leads to their hut. They never look back. I’m not exaggerating when I say that we are often the only vehicle to pass all day and in really remote areas, all week.  Why do we do it? Partly as a way of giving back to a continent and people that inspire us and have given us so much. Partly because we’ve never forgotten how hard it was to get transport through Africa when we did it by bush taxi in 2005. We vowed that if we ever had our own vehicle in Africa we would give rides, so we are.

We have established a routine when arriving in camp. I get behind the wheel and park N‘doto so that we can enjoy sunrise from inside the rooftop tent and so the table and chairs can be convenient to the back door (panty), yet situated in an aesthetically pleasing way.

When she is exactly where I want her, Scott gets behind the wheel and moves her to a spot that is level. He flips open the tent, attaches the ladder and fly, unfolds the table and chairs and pours himself a gin and tonic, which is always well deserved after a day of rough driving in Africa. I wipe down the table that has acquired the obligatory layer of dust, move the tables and chairs to a slightly more pleasing spot and spread out a small white tablecloth (kept white by using the local diaper cleaning soap. Don’t knock it. It’s gentle on the hands yet does the trick on tough stains!) Then we enjoy the sunset while I cook dinner over our single burner propane stove. This is always a highly enjoyable time of day. We are relaxed over sundowners, I love cooking in the bush and Scott seems to enjoy watching me cook in the bush.

We talk about where we might go next, or how we will get to Karl and Mandy’s wedding in South Africa in October, or if and when we should attempt to climb Kilimanjaro. Showers or liberal use of Huggies Aloe Strong and Stretchys fit in sometime between arrival and bedtime. Sometimes we sit around a campfire chatting to other overlanders or sometimes there is a camp bar where we go for conviviality. “Let’s be convivial,” I’ll say, or “This place looks convivial. Let’s have a beer.” The other day, at Eureka Camp outside of Lusaka, we ran into a hyper convivial couple from Portland Oregon. “Don’t I know you?” I asked when the woman threw a wide, enthusiastic smile in my direction. Serendipity seems to rain on us when we travel in Africa and we are always running into people we’ve met before so I thought we had met in Hoedspruit, or on the Kariba Ferry, or somewhere sometime over the last five and a half months. “We were on Amazing Race!” she said. No wonder she has that reality show perkiness, I thought. They didn’t make it to the end of the race but they fell in love with Malawi while on competing on the show so they returned to Africa, this time on an overland truck.

We rise and fall with the sun so bedtime comes early. We sleep great. Almost every morning Scott says, “I never sleep so well as I do in Africa.” His ability to sleep so soundly in the wilds of Africa can frustrate me at times. Like the other night when we had to bush camp along the Old Petauke Road because we had not reached our destination before the setting sun. One thing is for sure. It is not safe to drive after dark in Africa. Anyway, we had just passed a small herd of agitated elephants and another smaller herd sleeping; the sun was about to set and it was time to pull over. We drove into the bush, far from the track and away from any village. Scott quickly flipped the tent out and installed the ladder. We skipped the table and chairs and stove and opted for a bed picnic. It wasn’t long before the first hippo bellowed and the elephants began to rumble and trumpet. A hyena whooped in the distance. Though we couldn’t see in the dark, something big was right there in the bushes below our tent. Because we have heard too many stories lately of elephants overturning cars, we discussed an exit strategy. We left the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition so if we had to, we could make a quick getaway. We ate quietly. Scott had a gin and tonic, then another. I was tempted to join him. It had been a long, hard, hot day of driving and bush taxi service but I didn’t think dulling our senses when there were ellies about would be a good idea. “Don’t you think we should keep our wits about us – that we should be alert?”

“That’s just what the world needs. More Lerts!” Scott said taking a sip of Gilbert’s Gin (Not a mistype. Not Gilbeys, Not Gordons. Certainly not Tanqueray which we ran out of long ago, but Gilbert’s, bottled on Lomagundi Road in a fictional, I think, town called Stapleford South Africa and purchased with our last Rands at a shop next to the Mblizi Zambezi Lodge adjacent to the Kariba Ferry,) “That’s not what I meant by keep your wits,” I said surrendering.

Scott slept through the night, like a good baby. I got maybe two hours. There was no moon that night so I couldn’t see what was going bump in the night but each time I heard a rustle or a heavy footfall I would peer out the front screen then rotate around and peer out the back, all night long like a spin dial on a board game. “Who’s out there?” I whispered to myself straining my eyes to see what looked like a hulk of an elephant but moved like a hippo.

“I never sleep so well as I do in Africa!” said Scott at sunrise.

“Sheesh! You missed it all!” I said with exasperation.

“What did I miss?”

“I don’t know! But there was lots of it!”

It is nearly 6p.m. and the Gilbert’s is waiting. Elephants are beginning to head down to the river while hippos are beginning their slow meander up the banks for a night of grazing. There is a soft breeze, which is a welcome relief from the dry Zambian heat. We miss everyone at home, that’s for sure. But we so enjoy this lifestyle.

We have plenty of canned tuna, Peaceful Sleep, optimism, and curiosity on board so, for now, we’ll keep going. Maybe there are people further north who would like a lift in an old Landy named N’doto.

Scott and Tris

South Luangwa

Zambia