Day 19

Day 19

Addis Ababa

16.11.2001

0904 hrs GMT

Altitude 2390 Metres

Our Steel and Aluminium horse thundered north. The Weasel was packed with supplies from the markets of Nairobi. Nanyuki, the white settlers centre and British Army Garrison was left behind in our dust. Rain clouds formed and opened, we turned on our wipers and drove on. The rain subsided and the run reappeared albeit fleetingly. Vast sections of the tarmac road had been washed away, this involved stamping on the brakes and coming to a standstill before negotiating the enormous potholes. In a very Middle Eastern manner, the Kenya police manned checkpoints outside each police station. In our military brown rover, we must have created an amusing sight. We waved at the paramilitary troopers and they waved us on. Occasionally they would snap to attention and crisply salute us. This brought us out in smiles but we did not remark on it. A constant flow of old British Army Bedford 4 tonners crossed our path. Stuart and I casually waved at the crews. They nodded back in a polite but bewildered manner.

"I've just realised something"

"What Stuart?"

"You are wearing a green shirt, I'm wearing a maroon T shirt and we are driving a British sand coloured rover that has been equipped for long range use."

"So?"

"We are on our way north, and have received a lot of very inquisitive stares, there will be some tongues wagging in the mess tonight."

"I never thought about that" I laughed out loud. The mirth came more from relief than the idea of some confused soldiers talking about us. We had been in Nairobi long enough. I like that modern African city, but it was a city after all. I was happy to be treading a new path, one that was unfamiliar to me. Stuart drove on and I settled in my seat. Behind me, Cisca started to read. We had been so busy in garages, post offices and game parks that I had not had time to open a book. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out Wilfred Thesiger "The life of my choice"

"Mind if I ignore you and read Stu"

"Be my guest"

"Ta"

Soon we cross the equator; We take the usual photographs and jump back into the truck. I return to literature:

My book tells of Thesiger's early years in Abyssinia. Page after page was turned and my fascination increased. Having been to some of the places that he wrote of, I became enthralled. His father was British Minister in Addis Ababa in the early 20th century. The book told of Englishmen who were driven more by a sense of honour and dignity than personal advancement. Postings were often ten years, and the locations could be quite spartan.

"Looks like Northumberland"

"What?" I stopped thinking of British consular lacking and looked up.

"Look"

I saw cultivated fields and modern irrigation systems. Only the Aberdare range of mountains in the distance gave away our true position. I took time to reflect on our task ahead; we wanted to cross the dark continent with a 16 year old land rover. There was nothing special in our achievements thus far. In Nairobi we had met some Israelis that had bought a Land cruiser in Addis Ababa and driven south through the shifta infested wastelands that we soon hoped to approach. Just outside Nanyuki we had crossed the path of two yellow 110 Land Rovers that had "Kent to Cape Town" scrawled all over them. They had just driven through Cairo. Their expedition aim was to build schools or hospitals in Sub Saharan Africa. They wanted to aid people. All we wanted to do was get across the Sahara, explore the places that people do not go and record everything we see and find from politics to wildlife, to anthropology to topography. Perhaps if we are lucky we will learn something about an area of the world that is rapidly changing.

The sun sets and we turn left onto the road to Isiolo. At this point, the Kenya Police have physically blocked the road. I down my pen and half wave, half salute the constable. He Salutes back and shouts "Jambo" back, but we are already gone as Stuart depresses the accelerator and we trundle away further and further into the northern hemisphere. I stop reading for some more moments and reflect some more on our journey. It is indeed good to be heading north. That is all I can think of.

Isiolo is a muddy farmyard where the macadamised roads of the Kenya Roads authority end. We night halt in the Bomen hotel, wake at dawn and head for the Samburu national park. Here we contacted George and Rene Whittermeyer. We had met in Zanzibar and they had invited us to visit them in the Park. George worked for Save the Elephants and charity based in Kenya and the UK. As I walked into their bush office, Rene, a slight dravidian lass with a california, accent leapt from her desk and threw her arms around me. She was surprised that we had called in on her.

"You must see George" she said, "he is following a herd of elephants, here is a radio, head south of the airstrip and call him on channel one"

Eventually, after a lot of dead reckoning navigation and a number of confirmatory radio calls we find George. All around us lie the devastation wreaked by elephant, and in the middle of a volcanic rock field lies his Toyota Hilux. He showed us his various devices for measuring spatial distances and the herd's structure. I had barely known George and yet he displayed immense hospitality and kindness. He stopped his research and we drove our two vehicles into the path of the oncoming herd.

"Don't leave the silhouette of the trucks" George whispered.

"Hang on, these fellows are not bothered by the trucks and yet they are by people."

"Poachers hunt on foot, if they see you on foot, Navajo, the maternal leader will kill you. They know tourists come in cars and they don't worry them" I half clambered half slid up onto the bonnet of the rover and filmed the elephants all around me. They foraged at the wheels of my truck and pulled the bark off the trees yards from George's head.

"They know us now" Whispered George. The experience was surreal. One moment we were surrounded by elephants and the next, the had wandered off into the scrub. We packed up our filming and photographic equipment and drove back to the Save the Elephants camp. En route, we stopped to observe a pride of 18 lions. We were invited to dinner by the entire save the elephants team. Again, their hospitality was unsurpassable.

I am not an admirer of aid workers, I have lived in Africa and India and seen their aims, and achievements, but that night I was privileged to meet some very interesting characters that had come to meet Rene. The talk was of the cultural erosion of the Samburu tribe and the efforts they were making to allow the Samburu to remember their past and their traditions. It seemed that the catholic missions and the government of Kenya primary schools were educating the Samburu in western methods. When this was combined with the increased income available to a young Samburu man due to tourism, the entire tribal makeup was affected. I was fascinated to hear of all the different methods of assisting these proud people in their search for the right path between modernisation and culture.

Some things in life however never change. The Samburu were still cattle raiding and grazing. The only difference being that they now raided with AK 47s not spears. The night ended early at 9pm, but I was already falling asleep. We piled into our tents, slept and rose at 0600 to break camp. As the last sack disappeared into the back of the Land Rover we started the engine and drove off to Archers post. At this small dusty settlement, we had a strict rendezvous with Penny Narinder and Buzz. We were to re-group and cross the bandit infested northern areas together.

Our exhaust had started to bubble in the Samburu so we had this fixed in archers post while we waited for Penny and Narinder. Two and a half hours went by, and they still had not appeared. We were now coming to decision time. Either we abandon any plans to drive that day or we leave without them and the security of two vehicles. Eventually at 1040 hrs we left Archers post and drove to Marsabit.

Marsabit is green oasis on a hill; it stands in the middle of a desert. The desert was a volcanic rocky plain surrounded by shifting sand and thin, dry scrub. It was as flat as far as the eye can see. We passed through Samburu villages, over dry river beds, and blew a tyre. The damage was complete, As we changed the tyre; giggling Samburu teenage girls, daubed with ochre clay surrounded us. They were all of marriageable age. Stuart and I worked feverishly lest we succumb and become Samburu husbands. As we left the plains, we climbed up into Marsabit. I fell asleep, and Cisca had to hold my head to stop it banging on the truck wall. Why she did not wake me up and pass me a fleece I do know. The greenery was stunning. A colonial hill station air pervaded Marsabit. The Police barracks had pride of place at the top of the cool forested hill. As we drove along the muddy paths that passed as town roads, I was reminded of western Kenya, it was almost as if her residents were ignoring the barren terrain that surrounded them and were trying to live a life that was inconsistent with their location. The only eastern influence was to be found in the North of the town. We stayed in a large centre courtyard Muslim hotel that sat in a sand pit. The "Jey Jey centre" was an excellent hotel that reminded me of Marakesh in Morocco.

We rose again before dawn, wrapped our heads in our shamaghs and sand goggles, pulled our fleeces closer about us, and trundled off in search of the elusive convoy. Such is the banditry north of Marsabit that all movement is tightly controlled by the operational arm of the Kenya Police. (This translates as policemen with rifles and green jackets). We pulled up at the Kenya Broadcasting corporation guard house, which doubled as the town's northern police checkpoint. No vehicles were to be seen. I strode over to the gate and barked,

"Where is the convoy"

Three poor bedraggled constables took one look at me and tried to decide whether I was seeking to join or rob the vehicles. Seeing their faces, I lowered some of the cloth so that they could see more of my face. "Ahhhhhhhhh said one, it isssss coming"

"Ssssssssooon" said the other.

"Verrrrrri ssssssssooon" said the third.

"You must two hundred bob for the protection" Said the first, remembering his duty. I duly handed over the 1.80 fee for armed guards and waited. Eventually a single truck appeared.

"You see it has arrived" huffed the second constable.

"You may proceed" "What that's it"

"There will be more""

How many trucks are there in today's convoy"

"Who can tell?"

"Well when do we get into the convoy"

"Ahhh, just go and re-group in 10 kilometres at a market."

So we left.

The desert here was strewn with piles of volcanic rock and red earth. In the far distance we could see a line of green that rose from the desert floor. These were the start of Abyssinia. The complete lack of any military protection meant that we had to drive as fast at break neck speed to cover as much ground as possible. I hold the view that when travelling through areas full of bandits it is essential to travel as fast possible, for even if you cannot move faster than the news of your approach, it is often the stragglers that fall prey to the shifta.

As we thundered north the villages looked more akin to settlements in the Arabian peninsula. Camels wandered amongst the low stone huts and the sun beat down relentlessly. Our land Rover rattled and banged everywhere. We had to drive over 50 miles per hour to avoid the corrugations and bandits. (Maybe they were hiding in between the corrugations, for saw no sign of them, and we saw no fear in the herdsmen who calmly grazed their flocks by the side of the road.) The banging sound became deafening, and the drummed into our bones. (Stuart almost broke his ribs when the Weasel flew through the air.) I had read in a book by Peter Ratcliffe (DSM) that in Iraq the SAS Land Rovers would rattle and bounce on rocky terrain. I can confirm that this indeed true, and Stuart will confirm that no amount of laid rubber or sealant can keep dust out of one.

Close to Moyale we passed our opposite convoy. This was a marked contrast to ours. Ten trucks travelled at exactly one kilometre intervals. Above each cab sat two paramilitary policemen with their G3 Automatic rifles held in the low port position. Either the convoy commander of the oncoming convoy was an overzealous stickler for precise convoy procedure or ours was couldn't be bothered. I wondered how real the shifta threat was. Did we need the protection that we didn't have, or was this convoy procedure a mere throwback to days gone by? After five bone breaking (Stu's words) hours we pulled up at the Moyale Police checkpoint and stalled. We tried everything to re-start her but the weasel refused to move. Only after we had re-gapped the points did we roll on. The road had been so rough that the screw in the distributor had unwound and the points had closed. Kenya customs formalities passed in minutes, we crossed onto the right of the road and entered Ethiopia. The barrier was lifted by someone in a windcheater who said:

"Park here, customs come back two clock" It was 1205.

"Hang on, can I find a hotel and come back at two"

"yes please, welcome to Ethiopia" and we rolled into the federal democratic republic of Ethiopia with no clearance whatsoever..

This now brings me back to my desk at the edge of the Djibouti railway yard. I can hear the huff huff huff of the diesel engines as they marshal carriages at this altitude. The railway station was completed early this century and still runs through Danakil country up to the modern freight terminal of Djibouti. It is hard to explain the feel that pervades this great nation. Never properly colonised, often fraught with much infighting, Ethiopia/Abyssinia is a great and proud nation. The roads in the south were pristine smooth tarmac, and the hotels as clean as Europe. Everything in Ethiopia takes much longer than Kenya, but there is a different feel here. Things actually work. Banks are slow but methodical, customs were slow, but the weasel was searched for the first time ever. People are courteous and educated. I have to go now, to search for shock absorbers, but I will return to my desk and write of our journey from Moyale to Addis Ababa, the Stellae we saw, and the eight year old children in the forest who spoke English... So for a few more days, I say good bye.

Postscript. If my long suffering mother is reading this she can take consolation in knowing that the most dangerous part of our trip is now behind us.

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