trans-sahara.com

If the Sudan had stood still in time, Kenya was radically transformed. The deserts of the north were clean and peaceful. North Horr was an oasis that could have been plucked from any saharienne west african nation. Lake Turkana was majestic, the Chalabi desert was impressive and barren, Marasabit was a plume of flower that sits at the base of  the the northern frontier district, and then we descended into the hills of central Kenya. Nanyuki, and it s surrounding areas could have been plucked from any English valley. It was easy to see why the settlers from mother England chose here to be their home.

But more importantly, there is new air in Kenya. An air of improvement. Sure the system is far from perfect, but the violence is down, security exists and people look and feel happier.  I asked some Kenyans what their thoughts were, and they all confirmed that there was a nationwide effort to combat crime. The Mombasa nairobi highway was patrolled and safer.

“the thieves are hiding in the rural areas” said a taxi driver “when the police suspect them they give them a ticket home. If they come back and commit violent crime again, the Police shoot to kill. It is only recently that someone has questioned this, but it is a good thing. Things are not perfect but they are much better.”

While this shoot to kill policy may have seemed a tad harsh, I know Kenya and this is a fantastic way of making it work.

As soon as we were ready to leave Nanyuki, I went online and found three remaining seats on Kenya Airways at $156. But this was tomorrow. I rang Ashish at Zanair. (www.zanair.com) and asked if there were flights to Pemba.

“Last on on Friday mate” No others. Said Asish.

“Can you book it for me and I’ll pay at the aerodrome”

“Sure”

“just don’t put it on the Swahili Divers System- I want to surprise Cisca”

“No worries” .

This meant that I had until 1500hrs tomorrow to get to Nairobi, get stamped into Kenya, get to the  Airport and leave. We drove around Mt kenya and into Nairobi’s traffic. The 233km flew by, but we were stuck in the traffic and took many side streets to get to jungle junction camp. As soon as we arrived we had work to do. We were going to leave Sir Winston here, and so rather than celebrate our arrival, we spent the whole evening throwing out bottles, sweeping, cleaning, and re cleaning. There was dust everywhere and we battled with the brown powder. Eventually by 7pm we had a clean wagon. The Turks insisted on taking us out to dinner and so we ended up at an Italian called mediteraneo and had pasta and salad. I almost fell asleep at dinner.

“you look tired” said Berin.

“Funny that” I muttered in reply. Deniz, Elif, Andri and I shared the dorm and slept on clean sheets with no dust. At 0100 I finally fell asleep. So far everything had been an anticlimax. Had we not just driven halfway across Africa?

27.01.2011

Andri and I needed to go to immigration. We had entered through a desert in the north and the only people who knew that we were in Kenya were the Kenya Police Force, who had entered us into a very analogue register! Nairobi was a pleasant affair with 1960’s british designed buildings. Immigration looked a bit like the DHSS. We walked in with the Glorious Turks.

“can we enter kenya” I asked

“of course, fill in this form” the reception officer handed me a visa application form.

“I have a visa”

“we are using these”

“are you sure?” I persisted.

“go and ask counter number five”  said the officer. Ask them for entry declaration forms.

We ended up with exit forms and were ushered around behind the desks. There the principal immigration officer sat me down and asked:

“when did you enter?”

“When did we enter?” I shouted at Goksel.

“The 22nd” he replied

“the 22nd”

The office slammed a stamp down on visa and endorsed it WEF 22.01.2011. He handed it back.

“so now I am in Kenya?”

“Yes, you are in Kenya and you are welcome!” he said loudly.

Goksel started sniggering. He giggled uncontrollably-

“you just told him and he endorsed it?”

“If he wants to verify it, it takes one radio message to Eloret police station. Never underestimate the Kenyans” I replied gravely, trying to stop him giggling in front of the PIO.

Andri and I left the Glorious Turks to go and enter their vehicle into Kenya and Andri and I wandered around Nairobi. Andri needed a ticket out, so I called British Airways from the street, they were receptive and Andri was able to sit on a wall and buy his ticket over the phone.

We bought stamps and postcards. And retired to the thorn tree cafe in the new stanley hotel. We drank cappuccinos and wrote our cards. This was the first relaxing time we had really had to ourselves in ten days. We scribbled away and drank and reveled in the cool and pleasant air of East Africa’s capital. We ordered some chicken and ate our lunch while chatting away about the past weeks, it was finally sinking in that we had done something different.

“loads of people do this, but I think we are different in that we unwittingly chose the hardest if most interesting routes every time”

“Yes you could say that”

Suddenly we realised that we were late, and shot off to JJ’s camp. I said hasty goodbyes to the Turks, and a rather hasty one to Andri.  As the taxi drew out I shouted back at Andri:

“To all those people who said we would not make it… Tell them to F***  off!!” He smiled.

I first arrived in Jomo Kenyatta Airport in 1998 on a British Airways 747-400. I came with the Essex girl Jo Wood, had a disasterous journey, became very upset and left Kenya swearing never to come back. But now here I was 13 years later in JKIA walking on air. Kenya was an amazing land of deserts, fields and wonderous people. I had driven accross half of Africa. Literally into Michelin map 954 and out the other side . I bounced down the aisles buying some perfume for Cisca, singing ”I am going on a Jet plane”.

The jet plane turned out to be  rancid smelling precison air 737-300 but I had two seats to my self. I sms’d Andri as we taxied out.

“end ex end ex end ex when aircraft rotates”

The 737 thundered down the runway, I turned my phone off. There was nothing electronic in this thing. We rotated out of Kenya and I found myself saying “end ex end ex” to myself. (Expedition over, End of Exercise.)

I sat back in my seat and the airconditioning got rid of some of the smell of stale sweat and I looked for Kilimanjaro. I will be forty next month and yet I was as excited as when I first flew of out Cape Town in 1999. We had done it. We had done the trans. So many had fallen by the wayside, so many had turned back, but we had gone further than our initial target, we had taken the road less travelled, and taken the road to/from hell. (delete as applicable). The adrenaline coursed through my body and I felt supremely confident. We had done what others could not, we had done it on the cheap in a 46 year old wagon and, and see things that people don’t even dream of.

After a bumpy landing in Dar es Salaam, Justyn Land collected me in a Toyota.

“You W^&*er”  I said

“Look it’s free”  he complained.

Adam Fuller gave me a good price on a room at the Southern Sun  Hotel (www.southernsun.co.tz) and I flew on Zanair to Pemba this morning. I took any old taxi, sneaked into the compound, walked up to Cisca, watched her jaw drop and threw my arms around her.

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An SMS came from Andri

just landed, (zurich) now immigration and then S12 to stadelhofen. Have a nice day, Cheers! A.

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And that trend setters really is end ex. I have been at work ever since.

www.swahilidivers.com

If you enjoyed this blog watch out for the Pemba diary…. Same style, same madness, no truck.

I washed from a bucket in the JJ centre and dried myself. The towel started to go brown, so I washed again. Strange how washing from a warm basin of water can be so good. The things that we take for granted in the west are unobtainable luxuries here in the desert.

A dutch couple appeared with a V8 with some minor issues, I tried to help them, and was pleased that Sir Winston had no problems. Being Dutch the man pinched 100KSH off me.

Deniz asked us if we could load his triumph into the truck. We said fine and used a few people to help. We strapped it down as best we could and took off.

The road from Marsabit was bad, probably the worst corrugations we had seen, but nowhere near as bad as the Moyale sector. There were no shifta and so we battered our way through at a sedate 55-70kmph.

Goksel did not want to break his Nissan so he drove more slowly. I took the wheel of the Nissan and showed him how to drive, Then I put him in front and made him drive at about 55 kmph. He did well, but as soon as I returned to Sir W, he slowed down again. We literally smashed our way over the corrugations. Winston,  now weighing close to 9 tonnes  was heavy enough to give us some roll over the bumps, but also powerful enough to get up to floatings speed. The only issue was when we hit huge potholes or when the corrugations became too large.

At one point I was trying to find something and only had one hand on the wheel. The potholes became huge and Sir W spun to the left and started to judder like a ship running aground, I wrenched the wheel straight, dropped half a gear and floored the accelerator, Andri and Deniz were horrified, but we accelerated over the bumps and again achieved floating speed at 73 kmph. Sir Winston was able to maintain this speed on and off tarmac. He was clearly built to last. Eventually, shy or Archers post we found Kenya’s tarmac road system. We inched up to 82 kmph. I was shattered and everything hurt. Andri had done his 3 hours and I was only just into mine, I opened up the hand throttle and placed my feet flat on the floor. Now we could drive normally.

We screeched to a halt as I pointed out a herd of elephants munching by the side of the road. We took some photos and carried on. The idea being to get to Jungle junction in Nairobi by night fall. I had wanted to stay in Timau, but Goksel and Berin thought Nairobi was a good idea. So we carried on. At Nanyuki Goksel called me. “Lets stop here” the road is awful. I was a tad miffed, Timau was gorgeous and Nanyuki was not. But after some searching we found the Nanyuki Sportsmans Arms hotel. Once the hang out of the local farmers, now the hotel was concrete and semi modern. The bar was full of British Soldiers who were part of the local Kenya training team. They propped up the bar drinking tusker beers in uniform and muttering about how good or bad a 2/ic someone was. I took a bath and the water went brown, so I washed some more. Sleep came easily- for Nairobi was only 233km away.

Filthy- tired Dusty- No idea how good this is, pure diatribe- but It needs to be written. R:

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22.01.2010

Staying in Turmi proved to have been a good idea. Omorate, our original target was a dustbowl, nay a dump with a few government buildings and a bridge under construction. We had our passports stamped out and headed 17km back in the direction of Turmi to get the road to Kenya. If the Glorious Turks did not catch us up, we would wait at the Turn off. They met us 9km before the turn off, and I gave them instructions. “stamp your passports out, and ignore your carnet’s there is no customs here. We will have to stamp ourselves into Kenya.

“Will you carry on, or do we see you again?” Asked Berin.

“We will wait just on the Kenyan side of the border I said.

And with that we made our way south. The road did not really exist, it was a sandy path that wound through dense bush, and over numerous dry riverbeds. We stopped at small shacks made of animal skins and wriggly tin. The huts were low and the people very friendly, I thought they were Hamer people. Sir Winston growled through the sandy patches and the thorns tore at our tarp but the speed was so pleasant. The night before I had taken the precaution of spraying mosquito repellant all over the hinges of the commanders’ cupola. This mosquito repellant was basically pure petrol or ethanol and allowed me to flip the hatch open with wanton abandon, stand up, look out and enjoy watching the semi desert slip by.

We crossed numerous Dried up river beds which were made up of long stretches of soft sand. The villages were curious affairs with rolled wood huts, so different to central Abyssinian bomas. Girls came running up to the truck, jumped on the running boards and stuck their bare breasts in Andri’s face. They squealed with laughter and wanted nothing. They were happy to have their photos taken. I was in disbelief, this was like something out of a Leni Reifenstahl book. Surely there could be no place in East Africa where white people were not seen as a source of money. Being kind, but not wishing to ruin the experience for the next people, I magnanimously gave away my plastic water bottles in return for some images of the face painted faces.

In this area, many of the Omo people were armed with AK47 or Simonov rifles. They stared blankly at us, and l Looked back. They looked so strange in their tribal pain, hairdos and loincloths, herding goats or collecting firewood with a donkey, and an assault rifle slung over their backs.

The road widened and we came across a flat salt pan. A woman came out of a hut and looked at us. She waved at us and then a man in bermuda shorts appeared and waved at us as well. He came over:

“Passport”

“Who are you you?” I said staring at his bermuda shorts.

“I am police”

“Well you should be wearing a uniform, or at least have a gun”

“Ahhhh”

I showed him our passports and he said something like off you go.  We drove off looking for kenya. We were crossing a wide open flat area of sand when I asked Andri where we were.

“Well near the border” he said glancing at the GPS. “but I am not sure” I grabbed the GPS and looked at the border. We had just passed it. I flung sir winston into reverse and stopped right over the border. I looked for some stones and found none. I wanted to leave as sign for the Turks and found nothing. Finally Andri and I collected donkey dung and wrote the work kenya on the ground. It all seemed rather apt. I also drew an exact line in the sand and wrote “border” in Turkish. After taking some photos we moved on.

The difference between Kenya and Ethiopia was that where the Ethiopian Village had been organised and had a policeman or three, the Kenyan side had a very poor village that had the same low huts and a few women in skirts, although the tribes both seemed to be tall nilotic people. Were these the rare rendille? We grumbled on and found another village that was slightly richer and had some muslims and what I supposed to be Christians. The locals were sitting under a tree fixing fishing nets and Lake Turkana sat resplendent in the back ground. Unfortunately, while some of the people were friendly, they would not leave us alone, and an old man came to bother us. We drove out of the village and waited on the road for the Turks. They did not come for two hours and when they finally did, we were starting to worry if they had been arrested. We carried on in unison until we came to the village of Eloret. The importance of Eloret for me was the presence of the (armed) Kenya Police Force, who were camped on the highest ground in the area. We stopped outside and I greeted the camouflage clad constable. He wore a maroon beret and carried a heavy German made automatic rifle.
“get in” he smiled “and I will get my boss”. The boss turned out to be Corporal Bashir, who ran the camp in the absence of his inspector. It was Saturday night and after working hours, so he greeted us in a kikoi and T shirt.

“you are welcome to camp here,” he smiled and proceeded to give us a full security run down of the area. Which basically amounted to “no trouble”. We happily camped at the edge of the camp while CID wrote down our details in their ledger of “passing persons”.

“You are now clear to Nairobi” Said the tall detective. ”You should report again there”.

The sun set slowly over the mountains on the far side of lake Turkana. The sight was so beautiful that even the Kenya Police constables, who must have seen it so many times, gathered at their mess to watch the view. I snapped a photo and went back to my cooking. The Glorious Turks had not tested any of their camping gear and were all at sea when it came to starting their stoves. Their car was also not faring well. The roof rack was a cheap plastic mountain affair that was overloaded. Goksel was having difficulty with the condition of the road and Berin was having difficulty with the condition of Africa. These were not strange feelings, they had come to Africa looking for trans-african adventure and had chosen to follow us, consequently they had been plunged into the poorest most desolate part of Eastern Africa.  Deniz, Elif, Andri and myself were thoroughly enjoying the entire experience.After 13 years in Africa, Egypt and Jordan had jaded me. I expected the Sudan to be interesting and exciting, but this forgotten corner of Ethiopia and Kenya were truly wonderous. If the north of Ethiopia had been the real Africa, then this, the confluence of three nilotic tribes at the confluence of three nations was pure unadulterated anthropology, displayed without prejudice in front of our eyes. I ate and tried to sleep. But the heavily armed Kenya constabulary insisted on watching a gene hackman war movie. The sounds of canned gunfire filled the back of the truck and eventually lulled me to sleep.

23.01.2010

The sunrise over Turkana was just as impressive as the sunset, and again I made breakfast. We set off, with the wise words of corporal Bashir in our ears. We entered sibiloi national park and drove over rockbeds. Deniz was bogged in the sand, and had to go incredibly carefully in the rock. Only on the flat bits could he speed up. So worried was Goksel that he kept his speed low and the convoy split into three. We were in the ridiculous position of being in front, in a 46 year old truck. We stopped often to bring the convoy together. Goksel and Berin started to question their presence in Africa and so the waif-like Elif joined us the cab of Sir Winston. Goksel and Berin had things to talk about in private. Feeling a bit mischievous, I suggested that she drive Sir Winston, which she did, with great competence (and some direction) for a good hour.

After midday, she rejoined the Nissan and we continued our steady plod, we crunched over rock fields and grumbled through soft sand but all the time we had to wait. Gosel’s morale plunged lower and lower, thinking that he was holding us back. In fact he was not, Deniz was the slowest in the sever off road sections, but this did not matter, when the Turks asked, we had agreed that they could join us, and driving in convoy mean’t just that. We stuck together.

“Look we have a single engine too. If ours fails, we will need help” I rationalized it to andri, as we munched on some cream crackers and cheese during a halt. By the afternoon, Deniz had a hold of the road and was steaming on ahead in his triumph but poor Goksel was lagging behind. He was making the correct decision to drive slowly enough not to damage his vehicle, but he lacked experience and training to know where to go fast. The problem for Deniz and us in the truck, was that wrestling with the wheel or handlebars for hours was back breaking stuff, and the waiting for the nissan was no respite. We grew more and more tired, with our truck becoming the support vehicle for the Turks. The Turks ran low on water, and so we handed over some of ours, but we only had 12 bottles of drinking water left, and the air was incredibly dry and hot.

By the time we reached the exit gate of sibiloi, we had done 120 km in the best part of a day. We were all shattered, but we had to press on, it was only 1530. We drove beyond dusk and made 66km on the better road.

“Lets press on to North Horr” said Berin “apparently there is a hotel there” She had clearly had enough of camping.

“Can we not camp here?” asked Deniz, who could hardly stand.  But there were only fields of rock around us. We could not park, let alone sleep here.

“We have to carry on” I told him regretfully. We’ll light the road for you.
“Should he not go ahead?” asked Berin?

“No” I snapped, “ We light, he drives” I was too tired to be nice now, and I knew it. While I accepted the fact that I knew more about east africa and its roads, culture and driving conditions than Andri, he was an equal partner in most respects. His input was pure effort,  driving skill,  meticulous packing and general thoughtfulness. I knew that as we grew closer to my home, there would be more of a burden placed upon me, as I knew what on earth I was talking about and more importantly: what was going on. Andri constantly joked that I was the “Expedition commander” and I ribbed him back over other things, but we did as much as each other. Now however I had unwittingly subsumed the role of guide, of an area that I did not know. Added to this, people were now looking to me, for advice. I did not mind, indeed I generally love helping other people, but I had now reached the point where I was so tired and being asked so many questions that I was finding it hard to think. In default mode, I started issuing instructions, making decisions, and answering questions with a simple yes or no. Being Turks, this seemed to suit them just fine.

But I knew that I was at the end of my tether.

After a short while Deniz stopped and said “Sorry guys, I simply cannot go on, I have no strength and I cannot see the soft sand for the hard” He was the toughest of all of us. I looked around, the terrain had changed from rock to sandy desert.

“you could not have chosen a better place” I said. And pointed Winston into the sand and drove with full beam headlights on. A kilometre from the road I found three trees and parked up. We all made a coral and I started cooking. The Glorious Turks deluged me with offers of  one minute noodles, but I had had my fill of pot noodles in Harrow. I threw them all (noodles and Turks) out of “my kitchen” and made some speedy pasta, meat stew and Turkish Canned Vegetables. I ate while I cooked and then lay back on the large cable box while the kettle boiled. Andri and the Turks chattered away, while I looked at the stars. I could see Orion’s belt and wondered if my wife could see the same stars. We were only 800 miles north of Pemba now.  It occurred to me, that making tea was the only time I had to my self in the entire day. Andri told me he liked it when everyone spoke Turkish because it gave him time to think.

Two of the Turks slept in a tent and two in the car. They said they wanted to be safe from bugs and animals. I could not think of anything less comfortable and went for a shower in the dark, then grabbed the sat phone and quickly called Cisca.

“We are 24 km north east of North Horr, in the desert. All is well. I am off to bed”

“Oh I went diving- it was lovely”

“I am jealous”

“You are in the desert” She chided me- jealous herself.

“Don’t I f*(((ng know it” I muttered to myself. Climbed up onto my berth and fell into a deep sleep. I woke at 0400hrs and looked at the full moon high over the desert and thorn trees.

“What a beautiful sight” I said and then fell asleep again.

24.01.11

This morning I told the Glorious Turks that they could not make it to Maralal. Their vehicles would fall apart and they should take a short cut to Marsabit. They did not tell me, but they had completely run out of water, and were loathe to drink their sterilised local water. We took some of their stuff to Nairobi and said goodbye, we would now go our separate ways and meet in Nairobi. Goksel and Berin would ship their car home from Mombasa. Knowing this made them much happier. Now we parted company.

We took off and made good speed. We had 300km to go to get to Maralal. Soon after we came to a long dry river bed. We chuntered through and got stuck. Andri reversed out and tried three times to get us over the berm at the end. Eventually Andri did an “ice cold in Alex” and reversed backwards over the berm.

After taking some photos and videos, I watched Andri disappear over a hill and looked around me. There was no way that Goksel would get through this river bed. He had no sand ladders, and one spade only. I turned to Andri and said:

“We cannot leave them here, they will never get out. We just cannot go on. We have to wait”

“I agree” he replied- never one to say too much.

“They will need the sand ladders”

“yes”

And so we unloaded the four heavy and large sheets of psp airport matting and carried them to the end of the berm. There we laid them out and waited. I was about to say lets make tea, when Andri shouted at me. The Turks had arrived.  I jogged across the river bed in the heat, hoping that they would see me and not try to drive over the soft sand.

“what is it?” asked a concerned Goksel.

“The road is bad, let your tires down for 30 seconds a tyre”

“Now what”

“give me your car”. I was not going to argue about this, the girls got out, Goksel got in, I engaged low gear, second and tried to go forward. I got stuck straight away. I reversed and tried again with no success. Finally I backed up roared off and used some grass on the left for traction. With foot flat to the floor, we raced over the soft sand, the power bled away, but we made it to some stony patches and built up speed again. The wheel spun in my hands, as the car veered from left to right, bounced around some rocks and roared off again over the flat. We were now going so fast that I had to try and aim for the sand ladders, the sand stared to sap our power, as we hit the ladders with a bang and surmounted the berm. Petrified that I had broken his car, I dropped to a press up position and looked underneath. All was well. The whole process had taken 20 seconds.

Goksel puffed himself up with pride, He was now a changed man. Look at my car, look at what it can do, he said. “wonderful”I replied, so relieved that I had not broken it, and went off to collect my psp matting.

North Horr was a desert town that was more akin to a sudanese village than a kenyan one. We could have been forgiven for thinking that North Horr was where the sahara started. Here we all ate breakfast and bought water. I looked at Andri and asked questions about the road.
“lets go to Marsabit”I told Andri. “we’ll never make it to Maralal today”. He agreed and we set off again with an agreement to meet in Maralal. The Chalabi desert proved to be a serious desert crossing akin to the Sudan 12 years ago. The sand was sometimes soft and the rock treacherous. Andri and I lost the road at least twice and were bounced like stones in a rattle for hours. We surmounted small mountains of loose rock and ploughed through fields of bull dust. I was yet again reminded, that while the Saurer was a good vehicle, and the nissan light, they both had downsides. The Nissan was not tough enough and the Saurer weighed too much. The best off road vehicle for these conditions was a tdi 110 landrover. Indeed the fact that the Kenya police chose to use the new ford powered landrover up here rather than their usual  landcruisers said something.

Utterly filthy, dusty, tired and aching, we pulled into the Jeyjey centre hotel in Marsabit. Our first job was to clean and re pack the back. Most of our Turkish Milk had split and our truck was a mess. I then helped a Dutchman driving a landrover to find a hub oil seal, and then I started writing this. The Turks then walked in. Deniz had fallen over four times and smashed his bike. It now only worked in second gear. Goksel on the other hand had taught himself to drive off road and was very proud. The Glorious Turks now seemed to be gelling from their experiences and spent ages re-living their day.

I too find myself re-living my day- usually when my back is aching. On  a serious note, there is so much that is so magical about africa, and northwestern Kenya is one of those places.

Finally now, dinner is over, Deniz has asked me to put his bike in the back of the car until Nairobi and I will try and send this.

21.01.2011

It rained last night. The smell of the rain on the damp southern Ethiopian earth reminded me of my childhood in India, and the smell of rain in a clean garden. I was up until 0100hrs tapping away on the blog and then charging everything up. Today we head down towards the kenyan border, but not to it. I suddenly have three things to do in town, which will delay our departure, so I will send the glorious Turks on their way and catch them up.

There are so few days left now for us to get to Nairobi and finish the trip. I am aware that I have been posting or sometimes emailing on a daily basis. This will soon stop.

Berin, one of the Turks said “we are in for some long days”

“good” said Andri

“What?” I asked.

“These are my last days on holiday- so let them be long”

I smiled and understood. It had taken the addition of my fellow countrymen to make me realise how similar Andri and I were. We had been stuck in side a truck, front and back for the last 7 weeks and the closest we had come to disgareement was usually revolved around tyre pressure or whether we could get a £1 coin into  tyre crack. I liked the Turks, they were seriously nice people, on a par with Nathalie, Paul, Brian and Jan. But I had just been with Andri too long- and we knew each other. I had never been away before and not had an argument. Even my wife Cisca and I would have  had a grumble by now. ( I would have been right of course). Andri does not always say much- but perhaps that is more due to the sound levels in the cab.

And so trend setters I start the 21st of January not at the boat show in Germany, but in Arba Minch in Ethiopia. I will of course ammend this before sending this.

A bit later…

Well it has been a day. We are now in a a place called Turmi sitting on mats on red earth in a campsite, with Vivaldi playing in the back ground. The sun has just set, and that wonderful sub saharan african sky has appeared over the thorn trees. Andri, being swiss has opened a beer. Raf being Turkish has opened his third. We have had a really amazing african day.

We left Arba Minch and had to go to town to do some emailing buy supplied and a mozzie net for me before heading off. The Glorious Turks shot off and we carried on. We drove on Tarmac over and around hills on Tarmac. We halted for Ethiopian coffee at Konso and carried on, We crossed onto earth roads and cracked on past thorn trees and villages. By now the omo people were apparent and we passed women with dreadlocks painted bodies and bare chests. The red skin of the omo people was akin to the red earth of Africa.

We rolled down and up the hills, past forests of thorn trees, we did not see a car for hours, and occasionally we would see a man or girl in Omo dress. This was the real africa, the same africa that we had seen in Sudan and from the Ferry. The Glorious turks had a puncture and, not having had a puncture before they struggled with the jack. We came upon them and helped them position the small jack under the axle. Soon after the tyre was changed and we cracked on towards omorate. While we were slugs on the tarmac, we sped like supercharged champions on the off road sections. Sir Winston would not brook 25KMPH speeds, only 60-70KMPH would do. But we had lost too much time and so we pulled into a campsite in Turmi. A tiny Omo  settlement in the middle of Africa. A dust track was the main street between one shop and a few huts.

And so here I sit, under an African night sky, sitting on a mat, telling you all of this by satcom communications. At this point, in spite of the problems, and knowing that soon our journey will be over, life is sublime. At least until tomorrow morning!

Good night trend setters, from deepest darkest Africa.

My day started with a  run, up and down the hills of Shashemene. The run was refreshing, but little did I know what the day would hold. I had a quick coffee and a slow steak sandwich before setting off. The Glorious Turks were all running on Petrol. So they had a search for Petrol. The only minor issue is that the Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia is a tad short of petrol. The excuse given is that the issues of south Sudan have made the supply difficult. As such only the National Oil corporation and Oil Libya have Petrol. Neither of these stations was easily findable in Shashemene, we travelled 60KM to the first town en route andfound that there was petrol in the NOC station, but the pump had broken. The old adage of Africa being fueless came to mind. I remembered the fuel tankers back at the Mettema border and the customs officer telling me that the Government imported all the fuel. Eventually the Turks found petrol at Soda. We ended up carrying it, to reduce their load. They would need all that they could get from southern Ethiopia to central Kenya. Their car could only carry two jerry cans and the bike could only manage 120 miles before needing to refuel.

Ehiopia Changed after Shasheme, Up to this point it had been green and pleasant but not particularly awe inspiring. After Shasheme it became really beautiful. We dropped slightly and the earth became red and the thatched Tukuls became more prevalent. Every town in Ethiopia has a mosque, but here, every town had a pretty green mosque and many men wore the white skull cap. The road was littered with donkey carts. Until Soda, the road had been broken and bad tarmac, but soon after it became a road under construction with our path being an offroad drive. The road was so bad that the Turkish Nissan Pathfinder could only drive at 35KMPH. But we found this speed incredibly uncomfortable, we bounced horribly, and found a nice floating speed of 55-65kmph. We rolled over the corrugations and found ourselves in the lead. This was a strange feeling.

Ethiopia changed in front of our very eyes, it became more barren and poor and yet it had an ethereal beauty about it that was undeniable. The people seemed to become more open and friendly than their counterparts in the north. A policeman shouted :

“Welcome welcome welcome” to us as we rolled though his checkpoint.

On one of the worst patches of road Andri turned to me and said:

“This is why I came here”

I burst out laughing. I was driving and the road was terrible, I had a good giggle.

“You idiot- you came here to drive on this road”

“No- to really see a part of Africa that is difficult to see. I can drive on the auto-bahn to Bern every day”.

I took his point, and again felt the same sense of excitement that we had in Sudan. I had never been here before, and this road was so bad that you could not come down here in a ford Capri!

We crossed some streams and found ourselves deep in the African bush, there was no tarmac and no easy path. We ground past stones, around potholes and glided over the corrugations. This was our Africa.

The paradise hotel in Arba Minch Was full. It was guarded by the Ethiopian army, armed private security, and had lots of short haired men running around the inside. I caught a glimpse of a notice and guessed that its residents were US servicemen.

After some wandering, we ended up at the Bayon Molla Hotel which cost £9 a single, but had the grumpiest manager in Ethiopia. His female staff were very nice, but he was a somewhat professional grouch. I was shattered and washed the dirt off me before going to have dinner.

We then spent half an hour discussing our departure time with the glorious Turks. They wanted to leave early and Andri and I did not really mind. This pointless conversation delayed my writing this, which will in turn probably delay our departure, but I really don’t care. This is my and Andri’s trip and we’ll leave when we can. The Glorious Turks are welcome to depart early and we’ll see them on the road. We always seem to catch them up.

And so trend setters that’s all for now, I think that tomorrow we shall be completely off road for quite a while.

A very short bit of conciousness today dear trendsetters… No time, slow internet and dust ridden again.

Today was another historic point in our journey. We had had a few of these, getting into Turkey, crossing the red sea, droving under the Suez canal and into Africa, and we have had some bad moments, stuck in the sand with no foreseeable way forward, and Jonathan’s falling sick. Today was a little different. Andri and I had coffee, packed up and started up as usual, but today we were going south of Addis Ababa. Addis had been our target, and now we were going forward onto what may prove to be new ground. We really were not supposed to be here.

For the first time ever, someone saw us off. The entire collection of good and friendly overlanders in the Holland House came outside and lined the street. The not so friendly ones did not. Brian, Rose, Jan, Nathalie, Some nice Clog. Paul and Wim all came out to make sure we left. We were sad at leaving these reprobates, but the Glorious Turks had gone on ahead of us, and were proving to be just as interesting company. It was nice, however to be seen off. Everyone except the Dutch promised to come to Pemba to see us (www.swahilidivers.com). The clogs said “Maybe- but at least we are honest”.

We departed Addis onto the debre Zeit Road.

“Don’t you see the changes?” asked an educated eloquent Ethiopian. “So many flyovers”

“No not really” I replied, Addis is Addis. It was nice last time and nice now.

But as we left we saw new Chinese boring industrial developments and pollution. After an hour or two the countryside came by and that was boring too. Finally and then some nice African Scrub. Ethiopia was so poor and so rich. Tarmac, nice cars, eloquent people and donkeys and white clad villagers using the same tarmac. Today is Timkat, their easter. We were stopped by long processions of Christians wearing white with colourful umbrellas, but in the centre of each procession was a large group of jumping youths. When I saw these Ethiops bobbing up and down as if they were attending a Winnie Mandela rally, I rather wondered why they insist on not being called African

The Glorious Turks stopped somewhere for coffee and we ended up overtaking them, something unheard of in Sir Winston, We arrived and found a deluxe hotel called the Rift Valley which is the antithesis of Wim’s place. If I were to try and describe Shasheme I would say it was a dirty main road with people attatched; oh and the tyre fundi is a chap by the side of the road with a 5 tonne bottle jack and compressor. But this is Africa!

Well trendsetters, we made it to Addis Ababa. It’s all been a bit strange- we made it down here on a combination of reasonable tarmac and bad tarmac. The old off road Ethiopia is no more. Well not on the main highway. The strange thing is that this is the poorest nation that we have been through, the people are not primitive, they are tough, decent, sometimes educated and fiercely proud. They also desperately poor. The tarmac was new, but the people had not changed their lives in hundreds of years. Women walked with brightly coloured umbrellas and and white shemmas along the side of the road. Donkeys used the road more than trucks. We were the minority. But we were here, deep inside Africa and that felt good.

Addis was our primary target, we thought we would get here and leave the wagon and press on. But for some stupid reason, after watching 2 hours of the long way round, and after realising what we were doing, we decided to crack on to Nairobi where Andri would fly out. But when we rolled into the mountain city of Addis Ababa, I have to be honest and say that we both felt a certain feeling of achievement. Sir Winston had managed to travel 7000KM together and 9000 for Andri. (approx). We motored through the city to the Railway Station and into Wim’s Holland House. A small series of bungalows with an excellent restaurant and small bar. Wim was an old Dutchman who used to deliver food aid to the South Sudanese. Tiring of the aid industry he used his cash to open a restaurant and holland house. While I have an affection for Kingdom of the Netherlands, I am not always overly taken by Holland Houses. The Dutch community turn up to meet, talk, drink beer, and moan about Africa; all the while with their bored looking nubile local girlfriends  hanging on their arms. Luckily This Holland house is quite nice, and has been invaded by British and Turkish and Italian adventurers. (not counting me Andri and Sir W of course). There are some Finns and Gemans but they are currently keeping a very low profile.

The most wonderful person on the plot is Brian, a scotish ex overland driver who is in a wheelchair (after a truck fell on him) and is driving to Capetown. Unfortunately he has had some misfortune and minor mistreatment in Sudan by some mechanic called Nazaar. His engine had to be replaced and then his gearbox. He needs a very unique auto box as he cannot use his legs. I spend some time talking to him, and like him and his girlfriend Jan immediately. Between them, Nathalie and Paul, and the glorious Turks I feel we are surrounded by the best people on the entire trip. Everyone in this group helps each other and us, and we help them back where we can.

Andri is fine, he feels a sense of achievement and excitement at what is to come. He is a bit sad, that it is soon going to be over. He is also enjoying Addis and putting up with my mood.

I am, in case you hadn’t guessed, in a foul  mood. My French Dive instructor has decided that he knows better than all of the dive industry in Zanzibar and will not use a surface marker bouy. He even pu it on paper- thereby admitting that he wanted endanger the lives of our clients. After many emails and much time spent trying to convince him otherwise, I read his latest moan and refusal this morning- lost the plot, rang Cisca and said:

“Go to the boat, get him off the boat, tell him to pack his bags and F**K off. Let him go and endanger someone else’s’ life somewhere else”.

I wanted to get into Sir Winston and put pedal to the metal all the way to Dar, fly to Pemba and take over the dive base and make sure it runs perfectly. Why should one frenchman ruin my business. Cisca informed me that the existing dive and hotel staff were fine, we were not so flat out that we needed him and I should take my time. So in a huff I applied for my Kenyan visa, and did some shopping for the hotel.

The Turks were kind enough to tread around me, and Brian and Jan heard me explode on the phone. Being an exploder himself Brian was amused and Jan was not fazed.

Having calmed down slightly now, we are faced with the most unsafe part of our journey on the entire trip. We need to get past the shifta infested south of Ethiopia and north of kenya to Nairobi. To this end we have many routes available to us, and we will choose one closer to the date. Not being one to announce our arrival, we will of course let you know where we go and which route we take after the event.

I also received an email from the super GM of the Southern Sun, who offered me free parking in Dar and a slightly discounted room and (full price) beers. I may not make it to Dar, but I would really like to return the favour by thoroughly recommending the Southern Sun hotel in dar es salaam. www.southernsun.co.tz . This is the only quality hotel in Dar with sensational service and all the usual trappings of a good hotel.

And so on that note, I sign off from the leafy glades of Addis Ababa- until the next episode trend setters……

Well trendsetters, some of you may be informed of the potential problems entering Ethiopia. The Ethiopian authorities will not let a vehicle in without a letter of guarantee from your Embassy. The British Embassy in Addis Ababa very kindly and very swiftly processed our paperwork and issued said letter to me, and with that we rolled out of Khartoum, got the wrong road, and carried on until we got back to the right road. Note that this was the only road, and getting back to it involved  a short cross country drive.

Just outside Khartoum, say 5 miles, Mathias, the German rang me. He had been fined 100pounds by the Sudan Police for jumping a red light, had driven to Galabat in the dark and had generally had a pretty expensive time in Sudan.

“They are cheating me.” Was his constant moan. In spite of this, I rather liked Mathias, and when I was bored, I would think of some practical joke to play on him, which he would rise to magnificently until we broke it to him.

This time, he had some useful information. The Ethiopians would not let anyone in, with a vehicle, who did not have the permission of the minister of tourism himself. They sat him down at the border and told him that this was the case but as he was here, they would let him in with the letter alone. This prompted me to call the consular section of the British Embassy in Addis Ababa who would not pick up the phone. Eventually the operator told me to call back later. I wondered at the cutbacks in London that left a British Mission so short staffed that there was no one to answer the phone. What if this was someone’s one phone call before being dragged off to Prison? This was, after all Africa.

Finally I decided to bother a British Diplomat in Khartoum; someone who had much better things to do with the referendum on. The Diplomat, sent some emails, and the overworked Addis staff did yet more work, this time inspired by the Ethiopian Customs officers at Metema. By the end of the day, the British Diplomat sent me a text message saying something along the lines of: “there is no such requirement- Addis have raised your case with Customs HQ, Good luck”.

We drove on with some confidence now. The flat sahel like sand disappeared and fields of black cotton appeared with  some plants. Rock mountains appeared, and long grass. By now, the desert flat roofed mud huts had disappeared and African straw roofed Tukuls appeared. The people even looked African, herding their cattle along the streets and fields. The checkpoints here were less sensitive than those of the north of Khartoum. Somewhere here, south east of Khartoum, the lands of the Sahara stopped, and Africa began. I make the distinction between the two- The Sahara is a unique ecosystem that breeds tough, hospitable people who know the value of water, and the meaning of life and death. Africa is a more laid back, casual affair where the laissez faire attitude to life, leads to mismanagement and death. Eventually the sunset and I handed over the wheel for the final time. Andri then drove us into Galabat, which with Metema has to vie for the title of filthiest border post in Africa.

Ethiopian immigration consisted of two jabbering women who were obviously enjoying their day behind two nice desks in a portacabin and fifty Ethiopians squatting on the ground outside. This was a definite “us and them” country. The two ladies spent 45mins jabbering away while occasionally crosschecking our names. While this was going on we were sitting on a couch, and I looked over the girl’s shoulder into Eventually, when the ladies had finished their discussion on mascara etc, we were stamped into the Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia and were free to go… well to go to customs. The chief customs officer took 15 minutes to personally fill out our entry form, and stamped us into the Republic. This was our fastest entry and our cheapest, being free. Someone, somewhere had spoken to these lads.

We jumped in and headed off down the newly laid tarmac. The road rose and fell, and wound itself between straw huts called tukuls and large cliffs. We climbed steadily up to 6500ft and then dropped, We stopped on a village on a ridge and had coffee. Some students who spoke English and the village photographer showed us the restaurant. They increased my Amharic vocabulary from two words to twenty and we took some photos of the “kitchen”. We descended some more, and then climbed up again to 7500ft and the town of Gondar. Here I badly needed some sore mouth gel and a sim card. Mathias was in town and had set up his usual network of friends. Telling me that I should not spend too much money on a sim card, he insisted on helping me.

“come to the castle gates and meet a  12 year old boy called Samuel. He is very dirty. He will bring you to me.” This sounded like something out of a Roman Polansky film, but lo and behold, the boy was waiting and took me to a dingy doorway that led to a courtyard of burned out fridges, past two technicians and through the fridges.  If I did not live in Africa, this might have seemed a little unsafe. Finally I rounded  a corner and there was Mathias with his motorbike in bits and an excellent English Speaking mechanic who was helping him. I paid for my sim and wandered off. “How does he do it?” I wondered.

I wrote a note in Turkish and gave it to a tourism helper, a sort of official beach boy.

“Give this to the Turks who will arrive later today” I said.

Andri and I sat on the roof of the Taye hotel, and watched the sun go down, when the four Turks walked in. They had had an easy ride at the border, and were very talkative. They were considering crossing into Kenya with us if we had no objection. “of course not, the more the merrier” I said. They had horror stories of the Ethiopian Embassy that made mine look like nothing. We had a pleasant dinner and I went to bed early.

And so trendsetters, greetings from Gondar, greetings from Africa, real Africa. Just don’t let the Ethiopians here me say that.

You won’t recognise Khartoum everyone said. Well I did. It’s the same. The same nile, the same dusty brown houses. The same dusty streets, the same southerners selling tea and coffee on the street sides, the same restaurants, the same people, the same friendliness, the same lethargy and the same uselessness. The same airport slap bang in the middle of town, and the same NGO’s and UN.

Sure there are a few more tarmac roads, a few more car dealerships, a few more planes landing, more money in the market and some more traffic, the spirit of Khartoum has not changed. The Government is still the government, and life goes on.

The one change is that there is no war with the south. The north and south have had peace since I was last here and are now in the throes of a referendum. This process can go either way, perhaps the south will split and prosper, but being a cynic, I just see another destitute African country being formed with no coastline. Their oil will have to go through another country and, I cannot for the life of me, see a new south Sudan escaping the malaise of corruption and abuse of power that pervades the dark continent.

Khartoum saw us do two things. Collect our Letter from the British Embassy in Addis Ababa to enter Ethiopia, and get our Ethiopian Visas. This proved to be slightly more onerus than usual. The Ethiopian Embassy has a rather unacceptable outlook on ethnicity. If you hold a British passport but do not have “English blood” then you have to go to the British Embassy and get a letter confirming that your passport in genuine and not stolen. If you have a foreign surname and yet look and sound English like I do, they only catch this on the way out. Andri was given his visa and I was told, after some discussion, that I would have to get a letter. Only the eventual production of my Turkish passport and Metropolitan (London) Police Shotgun (Firearm) certificate saved me the bother of the journey and the expense. After the Visa was given, I moaned to a British Diplomat that the Ethiopians had the same racial views as 1934-1945 Germany. He suggested that I put my experience formally in writing, which I will do.
“We only have one kind of British Citizen” he muttered crossly. “And that is a British Citizen”

(and I suppose I’ll stick it, less formally, on the internet- which I just have.)

At the Embassy we met four Turks who were motorcycling and driving across Africa. They had met Louise Butler in Egypt, who is sadly going home soon. They seemed nice enough but had had some issues with the Ethiopian embassy. (what a surprise) I invited them to Pemba in Tanzania. We also met Stephano and Andrea, two splendid Italians who were cycling to Sudan and Cape Town. We hope to see Andrea in Pemba when he passes through – he is, after all a diving instructor.

Finally last night we found Morris Lando, an old friend and diver. We chatted the night away, and had dinner at a Lebanese place. Then he dropped us off at Tony’s and marvelled over sir Winston.

“That is one big %^&*(ing truck” he muttered.

Well trendsetters that sums up New Khartoum- We found our two sets of friends, Tony and K, and Morris. We have our papers and visas and as soon as this hits the world wide web, we are Ethiopia Bound…. (well border bound).

We left you trend setters at desert camp two. Where our BGAN and Mac battery died. On a whim we turned off and sat in the lee of a rock mountain, but there was so little battery that I could not even upload photos. That night the wind howled, we lowered one side of the tarp but it still howled, and shoved sand into everything. My ears, eyes, the whole lot. We lay in our sleeping bags and I said:

“this whole sand driving routine is down to route selection. How come the Arabs drive 25 tonne nissan’s through here in 2 wheel drive and don’t always get bogged? Because they know where not to go. The rest of it is low pressure tyres and then and only then, the type of vehicle. The minute we knew where to go, we never got stuck”

“Yes- and momentum is everything” he replied.

On our last morning I had my small canon camera next to me, and snapped the dawn light from my sleeping bag. As soon as I dared, I made tea and we packed camp. It still took us an hour and twenty minutes from first stirring to drive away- but were rolling south along the sand. We ran slap bang into a mini sand storm which neither of us appreciated, we were only saved by our shemaghs. We surmounted the railway line, went around a berm, past a settlement and onto tarmac. We were stunned. Soon we passed “station 10 junction”. Surely the tarmac could not last all the way to Khartoum. But it did. We stopped north of Berber for an excellent brunch of lamb, bread, foul, felafel and onions. Then we carried on down past the nile, indeed away from the nile through what I call dirty desert of small black rocks and grey sand.

“This must have been fun before the tarmac” I mused.

“Yes” said Andri grimly as we passed yet another station “great fun”.

The road went on, narrow but smooth, north of Atbara the trucks appeared and we slowed from our 52.8 mph to 32mph.

We would overtake the articulated lorries one by one, until we were stopped by the Sudan Police Force, who would allow the trucks passed while they checked our papers. The checks were friendly enough, but they were so frequent as to be annoying in the extreme. Sometimes only 500 metres would separate a checkpoint or two kilometres, then nothing for 200km. On and on we drove, eating up the miles, until we arrived at the Pyramids of the royal city of Meroe. We hopped out paid our 20 Sudanese pounds and shot a few pictures before heading south through now beautiful red sand dunes and low flat roofed houses. We stopped only to change drivers and drink Turkish coffee. Long after dark we entered the outskirts of Khartoum. Here we had a dilemma, we had two friends, and two decent night and had to decide where to stay. The fact that Tony had parking was the clincher. I motored through the traffic of Khartoum north. At a traffic light, I asked a minibus driver where the suburb was. He directed me in Arabic and one of his passengers kindly translated into excellent English. With these vague commands I was able to find the Nile, hop over the great river again, line up with the runway, go round the airport, and find Tony’s place. The directions he had given us were succinct and put us within 2 streets of him. A pizza restaurant manager put the final touches on and we were there. 600 km in a day was our record so far. We parked, re-parked, and then showered. I rubbed sand and more sand out of my ears and eyes and everywhere. Then we had tea and caught up on the last year.

Today was taken up with a visit to the Ethiopian Embassy, a dingy grim Ethiopian café (which strangely had two Turks pass by), and the National Museum. Khartoum was very quiet, not much seemed to have changed in eight years. The cabs were still yellow, the people friendly, the police everywhere, the traffic reasonable, the coffee good, and the place seemed as run down as before. Sure there were a few new hotels and Gucci looking restaurant signs, but Khartoum was still a dusty city sitting on the confluence of the river Nile. We sat by the Nile in an empty café drinking Turkish coffee contemplating life. A yellow cab took us back through the markets, past the brown mosques and the southern Sudanese ladies who sell tea and coffee on every street side.

Interestingly today the South will start its decision making process to see if they will split from the North. Everyone says they will, and I fear that they will be the loosers if they do; for they have so much more to gain from loose federal unity with the North. But this is their decision.

“Don’t go to Omdurman today” said another (English) friend. “might be a spot of bother”

“Everyone always tells me not to go to Omdurman- I swear Kitchener’s ghost lives in you all”. I replied in a huff.

“Not today” Said the friend, “just see what happens; if it’s fine, go tomorrow”

But we were too tired to go anywhere after arriving in Khartoum and dealing with the Ethiopians. Tomorrow we hope to receive our letter from the British Embassy to get into Ethiopia. No letter- no entry. And neither Andri no I want a long sojurn through South Sudan to get to Kenya. Not during a national referendum- not if possible. Now if I can get hold of Morris, 250 litres of diesel, and this famous letter, we’ll be on our way. And with that fellow trendsetters, I think I’ll go for a snooze.

Good afternoon.