Follow the Adventures of a group through our longest and toughest expedition. The Ultimate Trans Africa. An amazing tour starting London then through Africa in 43 weeks, down the entire west coast then back up thru eastern Africa and into the Middle East, ending in Istanbul.
We have made it to Nigeria. It is a much different place than the other countries we have visited. We’re experiencing plenty of those things that make Africa such a fascinating and unique experience but this country is offering a few new challenges as well. There is a much different energy here.
Have you ever considered what your reaction might be if you were to get up in the morning and find men toting AK-47s in your kitchen? I don’t expect that it’s odd for me to admit that I hadn’t.
Greg’s reaction was to offer a friendly “How ya goin’, Mate?” Which didn’t seem get much of a response out of them.
I heard Phil say “ Good morning” and then refuse to honor one of the men’s request for “hot water”, that is, gin. “Gotta wait until at least, 7:30 am, my friend.” This raises another question: Which is the best choice: deny a man with a firearm something he asks you for or assist in his inebriation? I think Phil made the right decision.
I reacted by pulling my sleep mask back over my eyes, rolling over, and groaning to Gavin, “ Please don’t let them want to talk to us. Please don’t let them want to talk to us. I can’t do it. It’s too early in the morning for a small talk! I’m still in my pajamas.”
Lena emerged from her tent and was swiftly approached by one of them. I hadn’t been paying attention to the beginning of the conversation but he caught my ear when I heard the man say “…I will marry you.”
Lena did what would be considered to be the logical thing and refused. She explained that she didn’t love (let alone know) him and that marriage was a complicated thing. I feared for her. This could have been the beginning of a long and frustrating argument that would go around in circles for God knows how long. Lena did what most would consider the logical thing….. but unfortunately African logic tends to work differently than the logic we know.
It took me a while after I had arrived in Africa to figure out what the best approach is to unsolicited marriage proposals. Traditionally, in Africa, the husband-to-be and his family give the parents of the bride-to-be something of value in exchange for their daughter, usually camels or cattle. Maybe a few goats as well if she’s an extra special lady. The response that worked for me when I was a single woman, when I couldn’t just pull up my “husband” and say “Sorry, Dude, yer too late.” is to tell the man that you are flattered, but your father is already negotiating your dowry with a man back in America (or whatever your home country). They had sent you away on a bit of a holiday so you couldn’t interfere with the process (as us troublesome American women are apt to do).
At this point it is likely that the suitor would say that he would like to negotiate with your father as well. In essence, that he would like to start a bidding war with the other man. He would enquire about the nature of the dowry. You would respond by telling him that the at this point the settlement included a lifetime membership to an exclusive golf club and several bottles of 250 year old whisky for your father, a brand new luxury car for your mother, and an agreement to take over all pending and future debts as the result of your terrible, terrible shopping addiction. Most of the time, they’ll take a second look at you and decide that you’re probably not really worth it. For the especially persistent, as a last ditch effort, you confide in them that, sadly, you are barren. Children are off the “To-Do” list. This sends nearly all the rest of them running.
Lucky for Lena, the rifle-bearing Romeo was probably still recovering from a big night before and wasn’t too determined.
Sarah came upon a similar situation later that day. This one I hadn’t ever dealt with: a man asked Sarah to become his second wife. Contrary to what you would expect, the idea was enthusiastically supported by this man’s first wife. A likeable woman and much harder to say “No” to than her husband. Still, Sarah had to decline.
But I digress.
The men with the Automatic Kalashnakovs were supposedly there as our security guards. We had decided to camp at a roadside church our first night in Nigeria. It was right next to a police check point, so the cops agreed to keep an eye on us. These guys surveying our camp were the replacements for the night crew and they were just checking us out since we were a bit of a curiosity. As we’ve been informed many times, tourists are a rarity in Nigeria. Go figure.
We were quite comfortable with this set-up. Quite comfortable until, as we were sipping our tea and buttering our toast, there were gunshots. One of these officers was shooting at passing cars! There were a few vehicles that refused to stop at the checkpoint. These were the ones getting shot at. I don’t know if he was aiming for the cars’ tires or for the road just in front of the vehicle but that is where they were hitting. We could only speculate as to whether this was protocol or the result of too much palm wine. Either way, in response to these actions, our 8am departure was suddenly pushed forward to about 7:30am. Nobody had to say it, we all just finished up our coffee and packed up camp a little quicker than usual.
One could understand why the drivers wouldn’t want to stop. Along this stretch of road there had been over a dozen police stops in about 150km, some within view of each other! I’m talking less than a kilometer apart. A few of them demanded to inspect all 24 passports…twice. I think we all appreciate safety and security but, really, this seemed over-zealous.
Between hear-say, snippets in guide books, and government travel advisories, you get the idea that Nigeria’s highways are rife with armed bandits. I can confirm this. However, these highwaymen seemed less hostile than we are led to believe, wore uniforms, and threatened us not with violence but with jail time. Nigeria’s police are ….. and I know I’m not really supposed to use the C-word, but I have to: Corrupt!
You get this all across Africa but never have I seen it as bad as here. We got harassed mercilessly. Every stop where we weren’t asked outright to hand over some cash we were accused some traffic violation or infraction of one sort or another. This in a place where it is apparently perfectly acceptable to drive a lorry with a shattered windshield or a cattle truck with 40 bovid in the back and 30 humans hanging off the side going 120kph down the highway. You may even occasionally see a cattle truck with a shattered windshield and similar cargo. We would be told that if we paid a fine, we could go on our way. Funny, that. We always refused to pay a fine.
“You will have to arrest me then, if I have broken the law.” Gavin would respond defiantly, “We have no money to pay the fine.”
This always threw them. They didn’t expect Gav to call their bluff. They couldn’t really arrest any of us for the things we were being charged with. They would try another angle, maybe reduce the “fee” a bit.
Gav would hold firm, “I have told you. We have no money. The last police officer took it all.”
After several minutes and a bit of whispering between fellow officers, they would reluctantly send us off, us smiling and waving and wishing them a good day.
We got pulled over by one group of men who said they represented the traffic authority. We did not have the proper insurance label on our windshield. We would have to pay.
“Only 60,000 Naira.” The man in the very unofficial looking vest told us. That’s about $400 which is roughly $400 more than we were willing to give this guy.
A lot of insurance companies in Africa issue dated, round, adhesive disks that you stick on your windscreen to show that you have current insurance. The man pointed to what he assumed was ours.
“This one does not work in Nigeria. You must buy one from us or they will not allow you on the roads. There are many, many other checks and they will not let you through.” This after we had already driven a few hundred kilometers through the country. “ 60,000 is my discount price for you. You cannot get it at one of the other checkpoints.”
He pointed to the circular thing again. “I know this one. It will work in other countries but not in Nigeria. You must pay.”
Gav did his usual “We have no-money” routine. He told them we had 3000 Naira but we needed that to buy food for all the passengers. Suddenly the cost of that insurance dropped by 57,000 Naira. Gav negotiated further, emphasizing that we needed to buy dinner. After handing over 500 Naira, the road block was removed and we were allowed to carry on. Those other road blocks that the man promised us we would not get through without his sticker never materialized.
I got to thinking about this. I was confused. I couldn’t remember us having one of those stickers and couldn’t figure out what the guy had been pointing at. I inspected at our next stop. I regret ever getting on Gav’s case for leaving trash on the dashboard. The “insurance sticker” that the man claimed he recognized was the leftovers from our lunch: the round lid off a Manchurian brand Cup-O-Noodles. Hot and spicy beef flavor.
The fun continued.
That morning we passed through the town of Ibadan. This was not our intention. We were following two large scaled maps, a Garmin sat-nav, and notes from a previous driver. All seemed to fail us. I’m sure you know that feeling when you’re convinced you’ve taken a wrong turn without actually having any concrete proof that you aren’t where you’re supposed to be. Gav and I shared that feeling. We put our faith in the sat-nav. The sat-nav betrayed us.
The Nuvi led us down what may have once been a major thoroughfare but had at some point since the creation of the “Garmin Nigeria Street Maps Series” had turned into a market with a narrow path in the middle. It would allow the cars of only the most skilled drivers to emerge unscathed and only the most negligent drivers to emerge with whatever sanity they had to begin with intact. Gav maneuvered slowly down the track. This would have been fine had it not been “Drug Yourself into Insanity” Day in Ibadan. It must have been. There were too many crazed individuals completely off their face at 11am for it not to have been some kind of national holiday. Me and Gav got to help them celebrate as they all seemed to be magnetically drawn to the cab of the truck.
Most of the guys in the back were having a great time. The locals didn’t know what to think of us. The guys in the back were waving and getting smiles and waves back. Up front, men were trying to open the doors and were hanging off the wing mirrors. Some were trying to smash the windows and the wing mirrors.
One man came to our rescue. He appeared to be as crazy as the others. He said that he was “Working for God”. Had George W. Bush not used the same excuse for his presidency, perhaps I would have been less skeptical of him. He needed to convince me. This man started punching cars and hitting men with sticks in order to clear a path for the truck. At first this seemed a bit heavy handed. After a few minutes it was obvious that it was absolutely necessary.
The situation was tense. It was quite possibly the scariest experience I have had in Africa. I’ve found myself in an open vehicle at night surrounded by a pride of hungry, hunting lions, and an injured and enraged Cape buffalo bull. The detour through Ibadan shot this out of the water in terms fear factor.
Turns out our man may have been working for God after all. This apparent lunatic got us out of a seemingly impossible situation. He beat off would-be bad guys. He got cars and trucks out of our way. He accompanied us out of the narrow street all the way to the expressway, hanging off the mirror the entire time, even when we reached speeds of up to 40kmph.
With his guidance and Gav’s expert skills at the wheel the only damage done involves the potential life expectancy of me and Gav. I think we may have lost a couple years as a result of that ordeal.
We spent the next couple days traveling to Nigeria’s capital, Abuja. It was slow going thanks to dreadful roads, a very confused sat-nav, and police stop after police stop, We spent one night in a gas station and the other within the grounds of a catholic mission, sitting around the camp stoves reflecting and laughing over the chaos of the day.
Finally we arrived in Abuja, the capital city, on Sunday. The Sheraton Hotel is our haven. They’re letting us camp in their employee parking lot. We’ll be here for a week. In between the missions of securing our Angolan and Cameroonian visas and getting extra passport pages for the Americans, we may get some R & R by the pool in the air conditioned lobby. If all goes well, in less than a week we’ll be headed south to Cameroon where we intend to tackle the infamous logging road!
I’m sorry about the title. I know I shouldn’t be subjecting you to that kind of unnecessary cheesiness but I just couldn’t help myself. I should probably warn you that sometime in June chances are that I will be unable to restrain myself from a similar title along the lines of “Kenya Dig It?”. Just a heads up.
Thanks to troubles of an undisclosed nature that trickled down to us at the Ghana embassy in Ouagadougou, our entry and stay in this beautiful country looked as if it would become an unpleasant mission. Going by the unjustified difficulty they gave us at the embassy and the rip-off of a visa they ended up giving us, things weren’t looking too good for Ghana. Fortunately, the place redeemed itself on its own merits.
Our first stop in Ghana was Mole National Park. Mole is a savannah grassland inhabited by monkeys, baboons, warthogs, several species of antelope, avifauna, and elephants. While not as densely populated as some of the parks we’ll see further on in the trip, the walking safari proved to be a fine introduction to Africa’s wildlife. The troops got to see, among other things, their first elephant… very close up. Seeing as how they did so while on foot, it was especially intense.
Even just at park headquarters, Phil, Dan, and Sarah had an exciting and much-too-up-close-and-personal encounter with a troop of baboons who were making a banquet out of the contents of the trash can. Phil and Dan pushed the proximity envelope a little too far and when two big, angry looking males barked loudly and lunged for them, Dan took off, Phil did the same but first managed to push Sarah to the ground. Whether, possibly in some obscure Kiwi logic, he thought this would protect her somehow or if he was trying to leave the irate primates with an alternative target has not been established. And they say chivalry is dead.
Further down the road, a couple of us decided that certain (and I wish I didn’t have to bring this up again, but…) bowel related illnesses had either stuck around too long or progressed to a critical stage. We decided to visit the doctor at the local hospital.
The truck pulled up to the rural complex. Startled goats burst out of the outpatient building. The chickens loitering outside the waiting area looked momentarily flustered by the behemoth, then appeared to forgot what it was they were looking at and resumed their scratching and pecking with great ceremony. Only two of us needed the consult but in all, Sarah, Katey, Spots, myself and Gavin were in attendance.
Unlike any hospital you’d see in Canada or the UK, the place looked more like a country school from, say Missouri, circa 1915… after it had been abandoned for half a decade. Wooden buildings with chicken wire for windows were marked “Female Ward” or “Chest Ward”. The little place out the back that looks like a neglected tool shed was marked “Mortuary / Laundry”.
The treatment and exams were all very straight forward and professional and I have every confidence in the doctor. The sickies were given antibiotics and vitamins and lectured about the importance of hydration. So that was all very boring. The best part of the visit, other than perhaps the lippy little nun who amused us all, was the snakebite victim.
This dude had no idea how lucky he was. A younger guy, maybe 16 or so walked up to the waiting area, the benches outside the exam hall, and sat down cross-legged on the concrete floor holding a crumpled up, once-white plastic rice sack. It was tied up in a tight little bundle with twine and it looked like there was something inside.
“What’s in the bag?” (I think it was) Spots asked.
The boy calmly, almost with an air of pride, opened up the bundle to reveal an enormous, thick, gun-metal grey, and slightly mangled snake. Unmistakably a cobra. The viper looked no less menacing with its head crushed in.
“It bit you?!” The boy nodded and showed us a rather puny scratch on his finger.
“You killed it?” Sarah asked “Just now?” He nodded again.
Obviously the kid had just been given a warning bite. Venom is an expensive commodity for poisonous snakes. If they can avoid using it, they will. Often the first bite a victim receives is a warning bite, without envenomation. If it hadn’t been a warning bite, the cytotoxins and the neurotoxins would have already been going to work and we wouldn’t had had the pleasure of meeting this very lucky lad…at least not while he was conscious. From the snake’s point of view though, well, guess going for the warning bite was a gamble he lost.
While all this infirmary fun was going on, the rest of the group was back in town. Far from bored, they took in a football game with some of the locals. The venue was a wooden shack, the beer was cold, the teams were both English, and the energy, so I’ve heard tell, was great. Plus they had FanMilk in town. No one can be unhappy when the milky, icy sweetness that is FanMilk is available.
The next day brought us to Kintampo and its nearby waterfalls. By this time, we were excruciatingly hot, sticky, and greasy with dirt and grime in a lot of places dirt and grime should just not be. Very much in need of a wash, most of us gave the first two waterfalls, that is the two waterfalls that had the “No Bathing” signs, a polite and obligatory but brief glance then made a mad dash down to the one you could bathe in. It was fantastic.
Further down the track, we turned off the main road onto a rural, unpaved road. Gav negotiated the tricky surface of the “road” while the rest of us took in the passing sights. We passed villages where we got our usual welcome, the kind usually reserved celebrities. Children would rush out of their houses. Their eyes bulging out of their heads, hands waving spastically as they appeared to suffer from some kind of apoplectic fit of happiness caused these physical symptoms as well as uncontrollable yells of excitement. How exciting was this giant truck full of strange looking people waving and smiling at them! The tykes would be whipped up into an even bigger frenzy when the guys in the back started throwing them our empty plastic water bottles, a highly prized gift. Yells of approval would issue from the younger men. We received respectful nods and waves from the elders. The women usually just pointed and laughed at us. Hysterically. I don’t know why. …
This “road” was taking us to the Boebeng Fiema Monkey Sanctuary. This was a fun experience. We got the chance to see some of the first forest in the trip and take a nice walk through it, as well. In the neighboring village, the residents treat the inhabitants of the forest, the Mona and Colobus monkeys, with great respect. It is a reverence that stems from their faith in fetishes and animism. The monkeys are such an important part of the spiritual community of the area that the primates even have their own cemetery. The monkeys’ behavior is said to predict fortunes and events within the village. Anyone who kills a monkey “will die” (whether this is a curse that will come about in time or a sentence to be carried out by the local executioner wasn’t clear).
Because of this respect from the local people, the Mona monkeys especially have become habituated and have no qualms about taking bananas off of enthralled tourists. Within the forest, it happened once or twice that I was watching Kev or Carolina or someone feeding a monkey a couple meters in front of me only to look to my side to see a little guy sitting on a branch at eye level about a half meter away. Both times I got a look from the creature that seemed to say “Dude. Where’s my banana?”
The monkeys were great. Pete and German also challenged a couple of the local boys to an impromptu game of soccer and several of us did a little shopping at the crafts shop.
That was only the first half of Ghana. After seeing the colossal market in Kumasi, stopping in Accra for our Benin visas and a trip to the cinema, we explored the area around Cape Coast. There, we visited Kakum National Park and the fantastic rainforest canopy walkway. The soccer fans watched Ghana and Ivory Coast battle it out in the African cup of nations during a massive storm in a bar that was stilted over a crocodile pond and which had a fickle supply of electricity. Made for an interesting game.
In Cape Coast and Elmina we took the sobering tours at the castles that served as ports for the slaves being shipped off to the Caribbean, America, and England. We wrapped up our stay in Ghana on the palm dotted sands of Brenu Beach.
We leave Ghana now and carry on to get a taste of Voodoo in Benin and Togo. We’ll cross into Nigeria shortly and begin what has the potential to be one of the bigger challenges of the trip: obtaining our Angolan visas.
I have to apologize, readers. I’m sure friends and family out there have been looking forward to hearing about Christmas and future travelers want to know the details of the Dogon trek. Well, I missed both and while I have tried to interview some individuals about the details, I’m finding it very difficult to write a travel blog about things I took no part in. So, sorry if this is a skimpy entry.
(Warning: The following paragraph contains material that may not suitable for…well… just about anyone.)
Why was I absent for 2 of the biggest events of the trip thus far? A major revolt was launched on my digestive system. I was attacked from multiple angles and rendered tent (or toilet) bound for the better part of a week. I could go into detail. That would be completely appropriate conversation for us on the truck. I realize that for you….. not so much. I often have to remind myself that giving thorough accounts of your bathroom adventures is not something considered normal. Bowel babble is usually a phenomenon restricted to travelers and health care professionals. Here, it is not unusual for someone to raise a question such as “ How many of us have soiled ourselves on the trip so far?” at breakfast and get honest answers. The answer (at least the last time it was asked) was 4. That fact that this was not accompanied by any incredulous gasps of shock or disapproval for such a topic being discussed was probably because we all know, probably from personal experience, that this stuff does happen. These kind of risks are inherent in traveling places like these, traveling the way we do. Further proof that, at least for those who are inclined towards such adventures, it must be well worth it. It would have to be in order to put up with ….well…. you know. Anyway, back to the point: I won’t give you a play-by-play of MY Christmas. But here is what I do know about the rest of the gang:
We spent Christmas Eve and Christmas at the Tagona Hotel just outside the dusty “town” of Bandiagara, Mali: A one-pig town. I can’t say one-horse town. I saw no horses. Just a very happy pig enthusiastically doing his part to clean up the city. Even though Tagona was a nice place to stay, Bandiagara was a strange place to spend the holiday. Sweating profusely while doing nothing more physical than sitting in a dusty environment, with a background soundtrack of goats and Bantu language and screaming parrots doesn’t fit in with the theme of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, sleigh bells and stockings hung by the chimney with care. But the troops did their best to cultivate the holiday spirit, complete with a Christmas playlist on the hotel speakers and decorations hanging from the truck.
The big night was Christmas Eve when the drinking, dancing, and gift exchange happened. No surprise, I missed out on that. I did venture out at one point. As I did, Chris M. just happened to be asking Gav about the little monster in his toilet. According to Chris, as he flushed he saw a tail wriggling inside the rim of the bowl. We checked it out. Gav extracted a sizeable gecko that had taken up residence in Chris’s porcelain throne. Can you imagine what could have happened had the lizard decided to defend his territory?
On Christmas day, we had the chefs at the hotel roast us a pig. Not that I could eat much but it was incredible! Kev, Jeremy, and Phil cooked the accompaniments: Potatoes, squash, fried bananas. Yum! This was a major accomplishment. This southern part of Mali has been absolutely pathetic in terms of the vegetable selection. Potatoes and onions are no rarity but squash and bananas? Nice work, boys!
Lucy and Chris also put in a good effort and cooked some fruitcake in the camp oven. Not a simple task. By the end of the evening, everyone was well fed and had their strength up for the upcoming trek.
The majority of veteran Trans passengers say that Dogon Trek is a Western highlight. So far, I don’t think that there are many on this truck who are going to disagree. Dogon Country or Pays Dogon is home to, if you can believe it, the Dogon people. The Dogon people are confined to this area of southern Mali. Because finding such well preserved culture - a culture that has resisted the influence of outsiders, is rare these days the Dogon homeland has been given World Heritage status. Tourists have the chance to see the unique Dogon way of life by visiting the area. Multi-day treks are a popular option and that’s exactly what the troops did. Some opted for the 3 day trek and others made it a 4 day journey.
The trek took the gang through Dogon villages, onto escarpment cliffs, and over dusty goat tracks. They would set off in the morning, stop for lunch in one of the villages, and arrive in another hamlet late afternoon where they would sleep on the roof of one of the archetypal mud buildings. The meals got rave reviews: Short on the meat but big on taste.
It was not the easiest hike any of these guys have done. The killer heat (35*C) and occasional climbs took its toll. Fortunately, the awesome guide, Speedi, had that covered. He’d hired a donkey cart to carry supplies and weary trekkers. It was a rickety contraption but it could do the job of carrying bodies to recovery.
Everyone seemed to have loved the trek. Some funny tales were certainly recounted upon the troops’ return: Everything from the confusion of locating the hole that was the toilet in one village (It was covered by a large decorative “lid” in the form of a statue) to Mayumi mistaking a donkey for Phil. Everyone was glad they had gone.
We’ve moved on from Mali. We spent New Year’s Eve in No-Mans’ Land between Mali and Burkina Faso. I haven’t decided yet if what happens in No-Mans’ Land stays in No-Mans’ Land or if I should give you a juicy report.
We’re currently in Ouagadougou, the capital city of Burkina Faso, where we’re getting our visas for Ghana. Monday was a national holiday. Ouaga isn’t a bad place to be though we have been a bit stuck – unable to spend the duration of our 7 day transit visa anywhere else of note. Always with the holidays!
Ghana should have a lot to offer. I’m certainly looking forward to hitting the first national parks of the trip, Mole and Kakum, where I’m sure we’ll see some exciting new species. We’ll also see some of the old slave forts of the Gold Coast and visit the biggest market in West Africa. I’m sure there will be a good story or two to tell coming up very soon!
We’ve made it to Bamako. We’re here in the capital city of Mali to collect Nigerian visas. Contrary to what both the Rough Guide and the Lonely Planet say, it isn’t such a bad place to be stuck. The place has had lots to offer (including Wi-Fi and, at least for Kev, air-con!).
The first night we were here was a big night. After doing time (albeit a short amount of time) in a dry country it was time to party and the bar here at the Sleeping Camel had plenty of beer to facilitate that. Not everyone was looking too good the next morning.
Sean Paul is playing tonight and some of the troops are planning to attend that concert. A few days ago there was a football game: Bamako against the Mali Armed Forces team. Carolina got right up there with the Malian ladies and danced in support of their team.
Greg had a craving for goat yesterday and had one of the local guys show him to a good spot. Apparently the “good spot” looked like a dirty old shack but whoever was cooking in said shack new how to do it right. Greg had 2 servings.
Aussie Sean and Jeremy came with me to lodge the visas. They wanted to see how tricky it can really be. Dang me if this wasn’t the easiest visa process I have ever experienced. They think I’m a liar now. I’ll have to take them to the Angolan embassy with me. If that proves to be difficult, I can reclaim a little face. If it ends up being a piece of cake, I’m bringing those dudes with me to every embassy as they’re obviously some kind of good luck charm.
I was told that there were 3 things in Mauritania: Sand, flies, and Mauritanians, in that order. That’s half right. There’s also camels, donkeys, and (allegedly) terrorists. I can’t confirm the latter but they certainly had the biggest, most disruptive impact on the trip. Also, I believe that the camels and donkeys outnumber Mauritanians – even if you only count the camels and donkeys that were road-kill.
That said, Mauritania was pretty awesome. The scenery was gorgeous and the people were very friendly. It’s a shame we didn’t get to see much of it though. We were rushed through the country by military escorts. The armed guards were on account of recent Al Qaeda activity in the area. They rushed us through town after town like an overprotective mother rushes her child past anything she perceives to be germ ridden. I almost felt like they were embarrassed to be seen with us they were that adamant about getting us out as quickly as possible.
The only times we really did slow down were when we had to get out with shovels and make the sandy road passable for our truck. That was fun.
So, we didn’t get to see much of Mauritania.
We arrived at the Mali border after dark ( and 3 days earlier than anticipated) so we slept there. Our first day in Mali proved that we’re truly in Sub-Saharan Africa. It was a quintessentially African day. That is, a day where you’re not really doing anything but still a lot happens.
I often sleep outside when the conditions are right. If it is warm and the area isn’t too densely populated, sleeping under the stars is a great option. That’s what I had done this night. I woke up surrounded with no less than 14 eyes fixed on me.
“Ugghh.” I mumbled from under the covers of my sleeping bag. There are few things I hate more than being stared at. “Make ‘em go away!” They didn’t go away.
The gaggle of children didn’t leave camp for hours and, in fact, they commandeered our campfire. Just as the concept of personal space is not really grasped in Africa, the concept of private property is not always clear either. I believe some of the skinnier ones were waiting around for a bit of our breakfast. Definitely not an option! We’re not heartless, we’re just budget
We proceeded down the road to Nioro where we struggled a bit to find the customs office. It wasn’t exactly obvious. We drove towards town and were given directions the opposite way. We turned around and when we stopped to ask where the office was we were pointed in the direction from whence we came.
When we did eventually find it, we ran into two groups of travelers that we had previously met in other locations. I find that you’re always running into people you know in Africa. Sometimes in the weirdest places. This wasn’t really a weird place to find fellow overlanders but the odds of us all hitting it at the same time was a bit strange.
The Spaniards had been delayed as they found themselves in a bit of trouble. One of the guys had decided to para-glide behind the other’s motorcycle while they were in the desert. The para-glider was arrested on espionage charges. Of course! Why would someone do something like that if not to spy on the Mauritanian government? Apparently the charges had been cleared.
Customs work finished, we took off towards Bamako. We found a little junction town where there were stalls selling delicious roasted goat. Before we could eat, however, we had to deal with the cops. Some kind of run-in with the police happens roughly once a week, often more, for us here on the dark continent. It’s usually something benign. Sometimes completely ludicrous. One comes to learn to expect it.
“Bonjour! Chief, chauffer!” The big man in the blue camouflage uniform boomed as he tapped me on the shoulder.
“Oh, great.” I thought, “Here we go.” It can be frustrating and time consuming dealing with these guys, but in truth, it’s sometimes kind of fun. Fun when I’m not starving, though! I really wanted that goat. I was a bit miffed.
I took him over to Gav and he proceeded to tell us that there was a problem.
He explained to us that one of the passengers had taken a photo of the police post. This is illegal in most of Africa, as is taking photos of bridges, government buildings, borders, military officials, public officials, politicians, probably any family member of any elected official, in some countries, certain streets are off limits. These are just the things I know of right off hand . How your average tourist is supposed to keep track of all this, I just don’t know. I think they need to start handing out pamphlets on what you can and can’t photograph.
Well, this photographer didn’t even know that there was a police post there. Just like the customs office, it wasn’t exactly obvious. She was taking a photo of some women and of the little town itself. Not that that mattered to the coppers. She deleted her photos in front of the big man in blue, we joked around with him a bit, and he sent us on our merry way. I got my goat.
As we moved on we passed plenty of overturned vehicles along the road. Not an uncommon thing on African highways. We came upon one vehicle, though, that had just recently driven into the ditch. The 5 occupants of the green sedan were sitting around stunned and looking hopelessly at the wreck.
This was their lucky day, though. We’ve got some strong men on the truck. Surely African Trails could just simply lift the car out of the ditch, right? Right! With the combined strength of the guys and Peter’s excellent instruction, the car was right side up on terra-firma with just a few heaves. If you ask the ladies of African Trials though, what really made it all possible was the encouragement provided by those of the fairer gender.
After that random act of kindness, we carried on and found ourselves a little bush camp in the scrub 100km or so down the road. Great little place with lots of bird life (including Senegal parrots!!) and some oddly, mushroom shaped termite mounds.
After dark, it became apparent where the smoke we had been seeing off in the distance was coming from. Trees were silhouetted against an orange and black background not too far from camp. Flames were licking those trees. There are a lot of controlled burns in Africa but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t spectacular and sometimes scary.
This one was quite a ways off and didn’t put us in jeopardy. Not everyone believed this though so it added an extra element of excitement to the evening.
Now, Gavin P. and Chris H. have been working hard on a project. In Fes, they built and tested a smaller model. They decided to go big on round 2. The guys constructed a gigantic, crate paper hot air balloon in Nouakchott. With the hot air from the camp fire, they believed they could make it fly. They were ready to test it out at this bush camp.
They got close. Really close. The balloon filled with hot air and tried hovering above the fire. Alas, she failed to lift off. The idea was right but her materials were perhaps just a little too heavy. Hopefully they’ll give it another shot.
From here we travel to Djenne and check out the biggest mud mosque in the world, the biggest mud structure in the world, in fact. We’ll see Mopti and Bandigara and trek in Dogon country. The river trip up to Timbuktu isn’t happening. Those damn terrorists again! I’m sure we’ll find something exciting to make up for it though!
Since last checking in we have traveled the High Atlas Mountains and the Western Sahara. In the Atlas, we saw fossils, Dades Gorge, and Todra Gorge. At Todra, Lena and Phil rock climbed. Lucy and Chris got adopted by a canine escort that showed them through the gorge and back to the guest house.
We experienced the rather amusing dichotomy of hospitality and thievery from a gin-fiending Berber man that let us spend the night on his rooftop.
We spent a few days in a campsite just outside Marrakech that was home to a large flock of peafowl and a few kittens that the animal lovers in the group (myself included, of course) just couldn’t resist.
In town, we wandered through the market and witnessed the famous snake charmers.
In Essaouira , we spent a day at the little seaside town and wandered along the beach and medina. From there, we headed off into the desert………
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Last night Greg, Chris, Hisashi, and Aussie Sean cooked up a camel stew. We were parked by the beach near Dhakla. There were a few kite surfers in the bay and some European campers on the other side of the lot from us. It was a bit more inhabited than what we’d experienced the previous few nights. Gav and Peter tried a little fishing. Gav caught something. We’re not quite sure what, but it tasted great.
Tonight we have the tents set up on a sandy spot in the middle of nowhere. Literally. We’re no longer in Morocco but we aren’t exactly in Mauritania yet either. We’ve got a roaring fire going right next to the Mauritanian immigrations office. Carolina, German, Peter and Mayumi are cooking up a storm. There’s a lot of eggs involved but I haven’t taken a close inspection to determine what it is yet.
We pulled into Moroccan immigrations a bit before 3. We were there for ages! I went off to take care of the immigration formalities while Gav took care of customs. Everyone had to wait and wait for the truck to go through the x-ray machine. I had to wait and wait to get the passports back. Gav had to run from this office to that office to this uniformed officer to that uniformed officer back to the second office….. it went on like that for a while. Then a police officer threatened to detain Sarah for being too desirable. Fortunately, she knows how to talk herself out of these situations and we didn’t have stick around longer in order to negotiate her release.
When we finally did get all the paperwork done, we were stopped about 4 or 5 times within the space of 100m to have all that paperwork checked and double checked.
At one point, a little old man came over to the left side of the cab, my side, in this truck the passenger’s side.
“Passports” I gave him the passports.
“Papers” I gave him the papers.
“Nationality” I told him our nationalities even though he had our American and Australian passports in his hand.
“What is your name?” He asked me as he looked down at a paper stating the driver’s details and name as Gavin Foreman.
“Summer Wilms” I said
“Not Foreman?”
“No. That is the driver. That is my husband.” I don’t think he was listening.
“Not Foreman?”
“No”
“You change! Now.”
Huh? I was confused. “Huh?”
“You change. You go his seat. He come your seat.” He said very sternly.
What?! I didn’t want to drive! “I… um…Oh! …Wait…” The truck is a bit high and I realized that he couldn’t see into the cab very well. I opened the door and showed him that the steering wheel was on the right hand side of the vehicle. Half of Africa drives on the right side while the other drives on the left. We’re usually in the part that drives on the left.
“Oh! English!” The little bespectacled man yelled.
We all had a bit of a laugh about that and he waved us through.
We drove out into No-Mans’ Land, the 8 km stretch of something vaguely resembling a road that we were warned has mine fields on either side. It was creepy. It was a nearly monotone environment. Everything a shade of beige. The place looked like something out of one of those sci-fi movies where most of the world’s population has mysteriously disappeared and only a few hundred individuals are left to fight it out in the barren wasteland that the earth becomes. Dozens of burnt and rusted cars littered the side of the road. There was an eerie, stagnant feeling about the place. It definitely left an impression.
We pulled into Mauritanian immigration around 5:45pm. For the first half hour we were given no indication of what we were to do. That’s normal. The ball finally got rolling and I took the passports to the office. They kept pushing me back in line. I admit, processing 26 passports at the end of the day does look like a daunting task.
Evening set in. The sun just seemed to click off rather than set. I didn’t notice when it did. One minute it was light, then it wasn’t. All this hurrying-up-and-waiting can be very distracting. One of the immigration officials asked me something quickly in French.
“Ummm.. Qu…Ummm. What?” I’m ashamed. I can make attempts to speak French but when it’s coming at me so quickly, I get flustered.
He mimed sleeping and pointed to a patch of sand next to the small white building where passport formalities were done. He was inviting us to sleep there for the night. Seemed like a good idea. It was clearly going to take a long time for them to finish hand-writing all the information from each individual passport into their logbook. By this time it was 7:30pm and definitely the best option. So, here we are: Somewhere between Morocco and Mauritania, sitting around the fire, about to eat dinner. One of those memorable if not unusual “bush” camps.
We’ve had some good “bush” camps over the last few days. This is night 5, I believe, since we’ve seen a campsite. We’ve visited civilization during the day when we’d pass through a town but otherwise, we’ve been living in the vastness of the Western Sahara.
It’s been cold but the nights have been excellent. Our first camp we found ourselves on the top of a red, rocky hill dotted with cactus. OK, as Pommie Sean pointed out, not the most ideal place to set up a tent, but it worked. Peter braved the outdoor sleep for the first time that night.
The next night we found ourselves in another unique spot. Dunes lay ahead of the truck. The beach was on one side with a little estuary on the other where a flock of flamingoes had taken up temporary residence. There were a few European campers there as well as some Berbers setting up large tents for an upcoming festival. Jeremy followed Peter’s example and slept by the fire that night.
Another camp found us in the middle of the desert where some of us wandered off on short walks to experience the place. It was hard not to. The wilderness seemed to be calling out for attention.
There, Dave decided that he would “upgrade” and slept in an unused camel trough. It was cold and windy and the trough was dry with high sides so it did made a lot of sense to sleep there.
As we set up camp in that spot, a convoy of tanks passed us on the road. Where they were going and what they were doing, I can’t even begin to imagine. They were excited to see us though and gave us a few friendly beeps and waves as they went by.
As you can imagine, with all this roughing it, most of us are starting to look a bit….well…. ragged. Dirty doesn’t really describe it but we’re that, too.
Aussie Sean came up to me the other day and said, “I changed my clothes this morning. It just isn’t worth it, is it?”
At this, I mentally inventoried myself and realized that I had been wearing the same jeans for well over a week, maybe 2, and the shirt for no less than 4 days. It occurred to me just then that that wasn’t really normal, was it? I usually go a couple months without washing my wardrobe (underwear being the exception, in case you were wondering. I’m not THAT feral… yet. ). It hasn’t occurred to me in years that this might be considered gross by a fair portion of the population.
“No, Sean. Definitely not worth it. When the clothes you’re wearing start to disintegrate, then it’s a good time to change them.”
He nodded in agreement. That seemed to make sense.
The jeans I was wearing at the time have no less than 9 holes in them and are starting to wear very thin. The crotch area has an emergency patch on it. I couldn’t find a sewing kit at the time of repair so some fabric and Super Glue did the job. Yeah…. I might be due for a change in leg wear. In addition, despite the fact that we’ve been eating well, I’ve already lost enough weight for walking in these jeans to become difficult: Step, step, yank up on the belt loops, step, step. It’s beginning to slow me down.
I may dress a bit like a cast member of “Oliver!” these days but I’m comforted by the fact that I know I’m not alone. Gavin is the guru of Overland fashion. He has a knack for keeping garments that most would have long considered dead on a kind of life support for textiles. Soon, it won’t just be Gav, though. By the time we get to Swakopmund, Namibia, we will all have forgotten about dress and decorum and will be looking as ragged as a bunch of Depression-Era hobos. And we’ll be proud of it. We’ll have earned that look! (Except for maybe Lena. She may make it all the way still looking like she’s remembered to shower. She’s been wearing a white shirt for a few days ago and it still appears to be spotless! I can’t wear a white anything for more than an hour without it being soiled. I don’t know how she does it. I’m in awe.)
We head through Mauritania next. It probably won’t be much of a visit. There isn’t a whole lot to see in Mauritania outside a national park and the fish market in the capital city. I think what everyone is most looking forward to is the showers at the Auberge Sahara.
Since the situation is a little uncertain here in Mauritania we’ll be personally escorted on the road by armed military and police officers at least until we get to Nouakchott. Possibly when we head south as well. That’s great, but it might mean we rush to Mali even quicker than anticipated as they’ll be setting the pace. That’s one of the great things about Africa, though….. and one of the worst: You never know what to expect!
Since the last entry, we have traveled from Chefchuan to Morocco’s capital city, Rabat where we had to get visas for Mali and Mauritania. Some of the group went off on a side trip to see the city made famous by the Bogart film Casablanca. Visas obtained, we drove off and explored the grounds of the ancient Hellenic city of Volubilis. From there we made our way to Fes where we explored the old city and took in a little culture.
*************
Things are going well. Very well when you sit down and really think about what we’re doing here. One wouldn’t expect to put 26 people on one massive, rather rustic vehicle, plunk them down into a completely foreign environment and have everything run smoothly from the get-go. Still, that’s how things seem to be going. The troops have adapted to truck life readily. We’ve got some absolute naturals on the truck who know exactly how to live this rather unconventional life. It is not usually the easiest adjustment for everyone to make. Truck life is awesome but it is very, very different from what most of us consider the norm.
Sleeping in tents every night isn’t something most people do. Bush camping defies our urbanized sense of what accommodation should be. Cooking over an open fire is a rather foreign concept to anyone who has grown up in the Western civilization. Electricity, something we consider a basic human right in most of our home countries, is scarce here. Internet, when you can find it, is tragically far from high speed. Water quality can’t always be trusted – you never know if it’s going to send you searching frantically for a toilet which can sometimes be a mission in itself. Hell, as we learned this week, water sometimes isn’t available at all. The modern conveniences that we often take for granted suddenly become unavailable. It’s all quite a dramatic change from the comfortable lives most of us are used to living.
I imagine what most of the passengers find the biggest adjustment of all, though, is learning to live in such close proximity to so many people that right now are barely more than strangers. In a pretty confined space, no less. That certainly won’t be the case at the end of the trip. We’ll be like family. For the time being, though, it is a little strange. It just isn’t a situation most are used to.
Adapting to truck life isn’t always exactly a fluid transition. These guys, however, have proven that it can be done in a relatively short period of time.
RABAT
Along the way we stop at some incredible places and see some amazing things. This can’t always be the case, though. Sometimes necessity puts us places that we’d rather not be. Rabat was a required multi-day stop. This is where we had to get our visas for Mali and Mauritania. Rabat itself was lovely. The campsite however left something to be desired.
Every former Western Trans passenger we talked to regarding the subject told us the same thing:
“Find a new campsite in Rabat. Temara Plage is a sh**hole.” Pardon the profanity, but it was really always those exact words. And I’m not talking just one or two people. There were multiple sources.
I tried. The internet wasn’t helpful and I found no book with useful information. One wouldn’t really call Rabat a tourist hot spot. I think I did the best I could without actually planning a reconnaissance mission to Morocco prior to the trip. The cost and timing voided that idea but it did cross my mind.
So, here we are. Tamara Plage. And it is exactly as we were told. I’d call it a visually depressing, overgrown lot that probably was quite a decent place when they last did some maintenance, back in …say… 1956. Now it serves primarily as one gigantic litter box for the colony of feral cats that prowl the grounds. If you wanted an illustration of the word derelict, you’d take a photo of this joint. So, in truth, if you wanted a shorter description one probably would just use the colorful expression the veteran Trans passengers used.
By no means is this place the worst I have seen and surely not the most rustic accommodations we will encounter. The grounds are sandwiched between a popular beachfront park and a main road so we’ve got plenty to see in the area. The manual flush, squat toilets are relatively clean-ish and only one of the four is missing a door. On the down side, there are no showers so we’ve had to get inventive. Some of us have been taking bucket baths. I, myself, have been washing my hair with the aid of a camp shower hung off the side of the truck. The water and electricity get shut off for nearly the whole day every day. These are things I can happily live with. Paying what we’re paying for the privilege of staying in the campsite time forgot and being denied water and electricity (which they most certainly can provide but won’t!) rubs me the wrong way.
The group adapted to the situation just fine, though. They’ve turned the remains of an old awning frame into a laundry rack. A make-shift internet café has been established in one corner of the camp where we can just barely pick up some wireless from an unknown source. Our cook teams have mastered shopping in the local markets and using the jico charcoal stoves. The meals have been great. The ablutions don’t seem to be an issue at all. Yes, I think these guys will do well on the rough roads ahead.
VISAS
The main mission in Rabat was to obtain our Mali and Mauritania travel visas. Gavin and I were able to do this job ourselves once everyone provided us with the documents and necessary photos. This left time for those who were interested in visiting Casablanca to do so. I can’t tell you about that but if you refer to Dan’s blog at saxyworldtraveler.blogspot.com you might be able to read a bit about that experience.
Most of the things one experiences while traveling, good or bad, just add to the adventure. The good times are just that: Good. Harrowing or uncomfortable experiences are usually reflected on with a kind of affection or appreciation. The one thing you rarely hear travelers wax poetic about is the visa process.
No matter where you are or where you’re going, it is one of the few unpleasant travel experiences that fails to yield later reminiscing pleasure. There is no romance involved in filing paperwork and spending hours at a foreign embassy, battling rude people for a place in line, dealing with officials who are constantly being harassed, which their mood often reflects. But it must be done.
Before Gav and I could go off to the embassies we all had to have all the forms completed. It took a couple hours for us to sort out the paper work, the first challenge being that the entirety of the Mauritanian visa application was in French. Not just straight forward “Nom” , “Prenom”, “Date De Naissance”, etc. There were a few obscure questions in there which also threw us for a loop. Chris H. and Mike proved very helpful in deciphering some of the more confusing questions. “ Si vous residez dans un pays autre que votre pays d’orgine, etes-vous autorise a retourner dans ce pays?” was probably the one we got stuck on the longest.
After finishing those and organizing payment, photos, etc. Gavin and I were finally ready to head out. We did our best to look presentable. Morocco is not at all as conservative as some of the Middle Eastern countries. I wasn’t too sure about Mauritania though so I changed out of my infidel harlot outfit (jeans and a v neck t-shirt) into something more presentable. That is, a getup that left everything to the imagination except my wrists and anything above the jaw line. For Gav, looking presentable meant he had to put on his one clean shirt.
I could go on about the whole visa process. I could make it sound intriguing… bribery, competition, deceit. Ok. Not really deceit but it sounded good, right? I won’t though. Basically it just involved a lot of waiting around and sucking up to government employees. Not something you really want to waste your time reading about is it?
FES
We opted for a guided tour of Fes. Kamal came recommended by some other overlanders so we called him up to show us around town. Kamal was dressed in traditional Moroccan clothing but I couldn’t help thinking he looked like one of Star Wars’ Jawas with designer glasses.
Kamal led an excellent tour. We saw the King’s Palace, a pottery shop, and a panoramic view of the city. In the afternoon were then led through the rabbit warren that is the medina.
The chaos of the sights and sounds and crowds blended together to create a truly exotic sensory overload. The sweet smells from the candy shops mingled with the oily aromas from the food stalls, the smell of sawdust from the carpenters, the odor of donkeys, cats, chickens, ripening meat, fresh fruit and incense smoke. The mix created an atmosphere that was overwhelming but unexpectedly pleasant. Voices shouting in French and Arabic, animal sounds, music from various radios, hoof beats, saws, clanking dishes, and nondescript hums offered the soundtrack to the experience.
Shops on either side of the small alleys sold stationary, perfume, colorful cloths, lamps, or meats that were hanging from the rafters of the stalls. Every now and then we’d have to flatten ourselves against the stone or mud walls in order to make way for a donkey loaded up with bags and crates and sacks of who knows what.
The butchers all had an array of offal for sale; unidentifiable, apparently edible organs displayed on saturated wooden counters. Several stalls had a wall of chicken pens, stocked with live chickens, less than a meter away from a table where a man was hacking up and plucking one or more of their former cellmates.
Fes is probably best know for its tanneries. We climbed up a narrow stairway into a leather shop to get a glimpse of this iconic sight. From their rooftop platform we could look down on the men preparing hides. There were dozens of pools with different, richly colored liquids containing an array of unusual and odoriferous ingredients: everything from animal fats, cow’s urine, chromium salts, sulphuric acid, pigeon droppings, red poppy extracts, and fish oils. Barefoot men were moving the skins from one concrete pool to another while others were dunking them in the solutions. They were preparing the leather as it has been done for centuries. It was incredible.
After the tanneries we were led through an alley. Kev was in the lead, walking along coolly. Following our guide he rounded a corner, then immediately assumed a more ridged posture and let out an emphatic protest: “Nope! Uh- uh. No more carpet shops!”, He was reflecting the sentiment of the majority of us. A rebellion of about 20 people was brewing.
“But this is where we eat lunch.” Kalmal explained to Kev and the mostly famished group.
“Oh. Alright then.” Kev said, relaxing his posture and proceeding indoors. Rebellion averted.
We bypassed the rug shop and headed to the terrace upstairs where we ate our Moroccan hamburgers and drank mint tea.
In the evening some of us went out for dinner and a show. Sean, Jeremy, and Mayumi all dressed up for the occasion…. In jalabas and a kaftan. The 5 course meal was excellent. The show was pretty good as well, complete with live music, a magician, belly dancers, and a wedding ceremony which Mayumi took part in.
Belly dancing is usually synonymous with gorgeous, fit women that have the ability to hypnotize men and women alike. So, I’ll be honest here; it was a bit of a shock when the first pink satin clad performer came out. A woman in her mid 40s with a severe overbite, a big gap in between her two front teeth, and about a dozen kilos in excess baggage came on stage and starting shaking what her mama gave her. Don’t get me wrong, the woman did have talent and was quite entertaining. Her fire eating was especially impressive. She just wasn’t what we all expected and it left us all momentarily stunned. Another few belly dancers performed over the course of the evening. Turns out that young, beautiful dancer was saved for the finale.
The evening continued and Sean D., Sean W., Dan, Mayumi, Hisashi, and Phil all had their moment in the spotlight. Out of an audience of over 100 people, both Phil and Dan were getting especially picked on. More than one of the performers pulled them up to dance. The rest of us cowered behind them silently pleading under our breath “Please don’t pick me. Please don’t pick me….” We didn’t all get our wish but it was still a fantastic evening.
From here we plan to travel through the Atlas Mountains, to see Todra Gorge where we’ll do some hiking. After that it will be on to Marakech. When we finish up there the trip will start to get very different as we head off into the vast Western Sahara. It will be one of the more challenging portions of our journey but one I think we’re all looking forward to.
It has begun. This event that many of us have been waiting for for months or more. We have just embarked on the adventure of a lifetime. Potentially the challenge of a lifetime. Quite possibly the most incredible, most inspirational, most enlightening, most insane thing some of us have ever done. It has begun.
For myself (Summer) and Gavin the trip started roughly a month ago in Turkey where our truck had been parked up between trips. Turkish customs officials are not known for their cooperative spirit or hospitality and they met our expectations with a quiet enthusiasm. They did not make it easy for us in the least bit. We couldn’t get out of Turkey quick enough and within hours of releasing the truck from the customs yard we found ourselves in Greece.
The people were incredibly friendly but the elements were a different story, as if Zeus himself was giving us a violent and furious “Welcome To Greece”. The rain poured. The thunder cracked deafeningly. A bolt of lightening hit a light pole only a couple dozen meters from where we were. When reached the relative shelter of a truck stop and swam through a parking lot to a roadside café, we were charged the equivalent of about $20 for chicken broth and a bunless burger. So, doing our best to escape the inexhaustible weather and ridiculous prices we quickly made our way into Italy via ferry.
We breezed through Italy, flew through France and eventually found ourselves in Malaga, Spain. There we parked up in what amounted to a mobile German retirement community. Our big, rough looking truck provided a source of amusement and bewilderment for the geriatric Germans. Gavin and I were quite popular. We stayed there about a week, sanding, varnishing, installing, making all the necessary repairs. That finished, we left the seasonal village with a grand send off. Everyone came out to see us leave. We carried on to Algeciras and Gibraltar where we met our 24 passengers.
Kev, Jeremy, Phil, Dave, Hisashi, and Pete had made their way independently and I found most of them in the airport lounge….eventually. I was sitting downstairs reading a magazine for the first hour when I saw a mass exodus from the upstairs café and decided to check it out. That’s where I found them. After introductions we waited…. And waited….and waited for the others.
The flight that brought the rest of the gang with it was an hour late. It was an appropriate start to the trip. Nothing happens when it’s supposed to happen in Africa and it’s best to learn that early.
The next day we made our way to the port in Algeciras where we picked up the ferry to Cueta. We loaded the truck on and then made our way into the luxurious vessel. The only regrettable thing about this journey was its length. Much too short as the ferry was beautiful.
The Moroccan border was very much what one would expect it to be: Chaotic. Mohammed , Mohammed and Mohammed (no, that’s not a joke) approached Gavin and me offering help with the immigration and customs procedures.
“Collect all the passports, now!” Mohammed #1, in the brown jalaba ordered me. I did. All 26 of them.
“Now give me the white cards that they gave you on the ferry.”
“We didn’t get white cards.” I informed him
“Ahhh! Then here,” He handed me a stack of white immigration cards “Have the passengers fill these out.” I did. Little problem: Mohammed #2, who was nowhere to be found, had everyone’s documents and not everyone knows their passport information by heart. A panicked rush to find Mohammed #2 ensued to no avail. I had to come up with a backup plan. Mid way through the execution of this backup plan Mohammed #2 turns up from God knows where with the passports. After the information was successfully garnered, passports were re-collected and I get told to take them to the police. Huh? I take them isn’t that what Mohammed #2 was supposed to do? Then why did Mohammed #2 take them in the first place? I’m confused but I comply.
Passports go to get checked by the police (twice). Meanwhile everyone is taking turns in the “Doctor’s Office”, a small white tent where a man with a computer looks at you through what I can only assume is an infrared filter. His job is to confirm whether or not you have Swine Flu. I’m happy to report that we all passed the test . According to Morocco’s finest technology, we are all completely healthy.
Back at the police office the passports all also seem to pass whatever test it was that the officer was putting them through. He asked me for a “gift” for all his troubles. While usually this can be a good idea, I’m still not skilled in discerning when and where it’s appropriate so I just gave him the innocent smile and tell him “Oh. That’s silly. I’m a woman! My husband controls all the money. You can talk to him.” Which they rarely bother to do.
Then there’s paperwork and more hassle with the police and this document and that document and this “problem” and that “problem” that can mysteriously be rectified with a little fee to either the “helpers” or the cops. Finally, the truck in boarded by a police officer who verifies that everyone in the truck has a stamped passport and we’re officially in Morocco. On to Martil!
In Martil we camped up at a little campsite near the center of town. We spent two days here just to get the truck organized and so everyone could settle in a bit. Lena, Katey, Daniel, Kev, Craig, and a few others had a great and cheap lunch in town. I was told that the squid sandwich was excellent. A few took advantage of the internet. Peter and Mayumi were given an octopus by one of the locals on the beach and Carolina has said she’ll show them how to cook it.
Martil was a good opportunity to settle in but today we were off down the road again. We were also on time this morning which is an incredibly rare event among most of the previous groups Gav and I have had. This is shaping up to be an excellent group.
We drove towards Tetouan and when we reached the outskirts of the city, a jalaba donning man on a motorcycle pulled up beside us and yelled:
“Where you go?”
“To the medina.” Gav replied
“Follow me.”
We followed the man, who later introduced himself as Rashid, to a parking spot outside the walled section of the city. Inside the medina, Rashid took us through the food market where Craig bought and generously shared some delicious olives. Dave started his dinner shopping and picked up some carrots while Sean and Dan collected bread.
We carried on through the narrow streets where we eventually and shockingly (please insert sarcasm here) ended up at a carpet shop. When getting an inexpensive tour, particularly in the Middle East and North Africa, you know there is a commission-giving entity involved. Not that that is always a bad thing. A few of us left with some pretty sweet souvenirs. Gavin P. was interested in one of the cactus rugs but it proved to be a little out of his price range. However, Jeremy and Sean both walked off with a cashmere and silk blanket. Apparently we all have a lot to learn about haggling from Jeremy who also invested in a jalaba and has been sporting it regularly. Greg also came away with a small rug which he got for a steal. He and Peter will have the best decorated tent out of all of us.
After the carpet shop we moved on to the apothecary and spice shop. There Phil, Mayumi, and Sean all received a shoulder massage from a very sterile looking masseur. Sarah won the title “Hottest Woman” in the room. The color changing lipstick that was applied to each of the girls proved this. As hers was the darkest, she was indisputably the hottest.
We all got a little sniff of black menthol to clear our sinuses, some rose lotion to moisturize our skin, and a sniff off curry to tempt us. The presenter was a good entertainer. I think a lot of us ,who are savvy travelers, went in with the feeling that we were just trying to be sold something. Granted, we were but it actually turned out to be an enjoyable sales pitch. Quite good fun.
Tonight we’re parked up about 10 miles from Chefchauen. We’re bush camping for the first time. The site is a bit stony but there’s a nice little creek alongside where the fishermen among us have had some success this evening. The pink sunset is fading on the hills to the west and the mountains are disappearing into the darkness on in the east. Daniel H., Dave, and Sean D. are tackling the challenge of being the first in the group to cook over an open fire. The rest of us are sitting around and enjoying the warmth. There’s been a few bottle of wines popped open. The campfire is roaring. It’s a perfect setting for the evening. It’s a perfect time for it all to become real: It’s all happening. It has begun.
From African Trails’ side of things we’d like to thank Mark for a sterling effort over 43 weeks, Rebecca for all the blog and photo updates and all the participants for their photos, general participation and for making a great tour, great. Thanks again. Stay tuned for the November Trans Blog with Gavin and Summer. http://www.hostelsworld.com Book hostels and hotels online
Check out all the photos of this trip on our Facebook page ” AfricanTrailsOverlands and Safaris” as we have been having problems with the photos.
WEEK 43
Our last country for the trip and it’s a whirlwind of activity. First stop is Goreme and the famed fairy chimneys and underground cities of Cappadocia. Formed when Mt Erciyes erupted, Cappadocia is like something from another world with its honeycomb cliffs, and columns, pyramids and mushrooms of rock (and a few other interesting shapes which can be left to the imagination!).The town itself has an old world charm and we soon familiarize ourselves with the local markets, eateries and of course the bars. At the Cave Bar the guys meet Ed from Georgia which is a nice reminder of home for Ches, and soon the southern accents are flying! (Thanks again Ed for your hospitality in Goreme). Downtown, Mike and Rebecca climb hillside to view the GoremeOpenAirMuseum from above, with Jose and Carrie stopping in to see the medieval frescoes of the monastic churches.
As the next day dawns Dean, Ches, Vicki and Rebecca are up with the sun and up in the air floating above Cappadocia in a hot air balloon.The views are breathtaking, and we drift above the pink-hued RoseValley and then across the aptly names LoveValley (we’ll let the pictures speak for themselves!). We climb to 400m and then drop down to navigate a cliff-face and through some trees before a relatively bump-free landing and some celebratory champagne.It’s an indescribable experience and one definitely worth doing.
Back on terra firma and the group heads off on tour. We start at the Goreme Panorama, with stunning views of the entire landscape. Then it’s underground to Derinkuyu, the largest underground city in Cappadocia, which covers 8 floors and contains a myriad of tunnels, shafts and rooms cut into the rock. We then hike the IlharaValley, a canyon full of rock-cut churches dating, stopping for lunch river-side and then on to the Selime Monastery, the hive-like caves featured in Star Wars. We stop to view the vista and the birds of PigeonValley before finishing with a demonstration of onyx jewelry making.
After a full-on day of sight-seeing it’s a quiet night, but we are all excited by a surprise visit from Joost who is in Turkey as part of another whirlwind world tour.
Leaving Goreme and it’s a long drive day to Olympos, famed for its ancient ruins, Chimaera (eternal flame) and tree-house lifestyle. Also known for its party atmosphere we make the most of the cold beers and the dance floors of the local bars. Waking with a few sore heads amongst us, Jose, Carrie, Shadow, Sue and Rebecca take a dip in the Med via the ancient ruins of Olympos. Mike, Dean and Willy are on the water early, sea-kayaking through caves and under bridges to see the underwater ruins, with Dean and Mike finishing the day rock-climbing. Ches and Mark also take to the sea and head out for a day of fishing.
From Olympos the next stop is Oludeniz with its lagoon perched right beside the national park. One of the hot tourist spots of the Med, we make the most of the turquoise waters by taking in a boat cruise stopping at the Blue Cave (where Mike earns himself a free beer by taking a leap of faith off the cliffs above),Butterfly Valley and St Nicholas Island, and taking frequent dips in the crystal clear water.A great day is had by all and we finish with a group dinner to farewell Sue, who heads back home to the UK.
Being the tourist spot that it is, Oludinez also gives us the opportunity to catch up on some much needed chores. While the lads watch the Aussies beat South Africa in the rugby, Vicki, Ches, Carrie and Rebecca discover the wonders of a Turkish bath (and after nearly 10 months on the road, being scrubbed from head to toe is truly welcome!), massage and a long-needed pedicure.
Clean and shiny we leave Oludinez for Selcuk and the ruins of Ephesus. On route we stop to see the white ledges of Pamukkale, the travertine pools which hang over the ledges of the plateau. It’s slippery work wading through the pools but we are in awe of the stunning site of this natural wonder. From Pamakkule it’s onwards to Selcuk, the gateway to Ephesus. The ruins of Ephesus are renowned as the best-preserved classical city in the eastern Mediterranean, and we find the Library of Celsus with its sheer size and detail the most impressive, while the Roman men’s toilets provide the best photo opportunities.
We leave Selcuk and head up the AegeanCoast towards the GallipoliPeninsula. We do a final ferry crossing from Canakkale to Eceabat, leaving Asia behind and crossing back into Europe.Eceabat is a small waterfront town, but an ideal base to visit the battlefields of Gallipoli. Gallipoli is the backbone of the Anzac legend and touring the site is a wealth of information on the history of the Allied campaign to knock Turkey out of WW1 and open a route to Russia. We visit the war cemeteries and pay our respects to the hundreds of young men (the youngest only 14) who lost their lives at this site. We stop at Lone Pine, The Sphinx and the Nek, before walking past the last of the sunken trenches where the Allies and the Turks battled each other, in some places from a distance no greater than 8 metres apart. It is a sobering experience and we leave the site with greater understanding and regard.
From Eceabat we are on the final leg through to Istanbul. Although flooding has closed some of the roads we get a drive-by tour of the city as we find a spot to park up the truck.
After 43 weeks, 301 days, over 43,000 kilometres, 29 countries, 29 passengers, 9 flat tyres, 1 prop shaft, frequent flip-flop blow outs, too many beers (and toilet stops) to count, and endless fun and adventure we arrive at our final destination, Istanbul.
Our heartfelt thanks and indescribable appreciation to Mark “The Weasel” Pearce, our driver, tour guide, super-mechanic, life-saver, spaghetti chef extraordinaire, RAS founding member (not to mention the Roxette singing and dancing) and much more, who took us all the way from Spain to Istanbul!
