Tanzania: Car Jackers!

Many months later, fleeing from the dark, we would remember these dazzling steps along a sandy ridge in the Sudanese desert. At midday we had tramped away from the quivering road to an old fort on the dunes. Among the crumbling ruins we found a hovel concealed in the shadows of the fort’s walls. A man clothed in rough cloth became visible in the doorway; he beckoned us inside. Slowly, hibiscus tea simmered on coals and he watched us. He murmured gently as it boiled, “on your road you have a danger, you have to move as one.” He said, “you see it first and run. Before the time to chase, you run, all in their place and all eyes forwards.” The hermit hissed as he spoke. Quietly finishing our tea, we spat back the hibiscus petals that fell into our mouths. We did not make sense of the man’s words until the day we were chased.


Broken Brake line (Photo AV)Tanzania was in bloom as we crept up behind the lonely blue hulk of Kilimanjaro. The rocky Mwenzi peak looked like the prow of a great ship, wrecked on an atoll in a wide green sea. A smattering of snow at the summit was a rare and melancholy sight, simply because it bears such cruel comparison to Hemingway’s“impossibly white” mountain of a few decades earlier. In Tanzania the borders of game reserves are less well defined than in Kenya. Elephants scuff the bark from the trees at the side of the road and impala flee, bouncing across the plains, from the roar of our engine. We found our camps by pushing a path from the road into the 10 ft elephant grass to fall asleep with the rustle of crickets and the barking snarl of leopards. At Lake Challa we climbed down 100m of steep jungle to jump from rocks into splendid blue water in the crater. In Moshi we tried to sell our old tyres. We were discovering that they were worthless, even in Africa, until we met a man plying a trade in recycled shoes made of tyre rubber. This was particularly opportune as Bas was woefully undershod subsequent to a disastrous flip-flop blowout a few days earlier.


In the sparsely populated interior of Tanzania, our route took us through several vast national parks, this gave us all a great sense of moving through the real Africa, the wild, empty Africa of Livingstone and Stanley. We traversed hundreds of kilometers of green bush, red dirt and sunsets stained violet by the rising dust. In the Mikumi national park we came across a male water buffalo grazing a few metres from the road. In person they are enormous, like a huge cow, reinforced for Africa, with heavy crescent horns and a square frame of thick muscle. Rich got out of the car to photograph the placid animal when another, very different, bull arrived from the bush. The second had a broken horn and a face covered with scars and bitterness. He took an immediate dislike to Rich and dropped his head low to scowl through his thick brows. We shouted to Rich to get back in as the animal was clearly spoiling for a fight. While buffalo damage to the car might be a fun story, buffalo damage to Rich would be difficult to explain to his mother. Rich could not reach his door so leapt onto the back ladder and scrambled into the window as the bull feinted a charge at him.

Angry Buffalo (Photo DN)

Angry Buffalo (Photo DN)

This was an incident that prompted the development of a system for unexpected hazards. Should we need to get out of a situation quickly and someone is trapped outside the car they must climb to the roof, rather than gamble on the temper of any of our fickle door mechanisms, and then slither down into a window while the driver makes good the escape.

We have a system for communication from the roof as well. This was developed after a surprise elephant encounter in thick woods (the person on the roof had no means of telling those in the car that they were eye to eye with a grey wall of angry wrinkles).

When parking Tess we have learned a rhythmic tapping system from a pair of parking wizards in Istanbul. This has now been expanded to include other signals. Two taps for stop, three taps for go, and a continuous frenetic rapping for “an elephant is about to pull my head off!”.


We have many and varied systems for coping with the problems that have arisen so far on the trip. One is a system of co-piloting Tess in the worst of off-road conditions. The navigator uses a map and an old shabby sat-nav with an African tracks program to give the driver real time guidance on the contours of the road ahead. We have a code for communicating the location of approaching holes, rocks, mud, deep sand etc. The system allows us to effectively use six eyes instead of two to scan the road ahead. In addition to saving us from several catastrophes when we had no head lights the “six eyes is better than two” approach allows us to pretend we are racing in the (as yet un-realised) Cornwall to Cape Town Rally. _DSC0919

Before leaving Tanzania for Malawi we visited Ruaha national park. As we arrived the sun rose over a hill and shone silvery on the surface of the river. The waters of the Ruaha wind long loops among giant granite shards that burst roughly through the rolling green landscape, polkadot with Baobab trees. Being off-season and fairly remote we had the park to ourselves. We lost the day following elephant and antelope over some of the most breathtaking scenery we have encountered on the trip so far leaving the park long into the greying twilight.

Ruaha River (Photo DN)

Ruaha River (Photo DN)


Conversation bubbled through the car as we rumbled along the ruined track away from Ruaha. A few kilometres from the park gate we came across a pickup flashing it’s hazard lights in the narrow track ahead. Our voices lowered as we noted that there was no way past them. We could not think of a reason for a pickup to be on this isolated road and car-jackings being prevalent in this area, we paused a hundred metres short to investigate. I took the binoculars from the dash and focused on the distance. “There are a few men standing around the pickup, they have guns!”

Bas pointed out calmly, “everyone has an AK here that doesn’t mean very much”. “True” I replied, “but this is different, they aren’t slung over the shoulder like a rusty farm tool, these are on a short strap across the chest, and their hands are on the grips”


There was a hush in the car. “We should wait a little, to see what unfolds before we approach,” said Rich “Maybe turn the car around incase we need to get out of here quickly.”


Bas got out to help Rich to turn the car without dropping a wheel into either of the ditches running along the sides of the dirt track. Tap tap…tap tap…tap tap…TAP. “That is enough we will make it around”, said Rich.

Bas crept down the track to check on the pickup again. As soon as he raised the binoculars he started shouting, “they have seen us turning, they are after us!” At that moment the distant engine snarled to life and began burning towards us in a cloud of red dust.


Bas ran back down the track towards us, “go go go they are coming.” He leapt onto the ladder at the back and beat out the emergency rhythm on the bodywork to show he was aboard and we should bolt. As we gathered speed on the rough ground Bas scrambled up onto the roof and held tight. He cast a backward glance at the headlights that cut a swathe through the darkness behind us then slipped in through the passenger window.


The track flew around several bends and straightened. Rich threw a furtive look back in the mirror. The lights were gone. They must have given up. Maybe they knew we could not go back through the park gate. We were penned in. We consulted the map and found an older route away from Ruaha Park. The old road returned to the main track after 60 km. We had to take the old road and hope that we could reach the junction faster than they could or they would head us off. Minds set, we raced away though the high grass and low branches; this path had not been used in a long time.


Our spotlights shone a yellow corridor in the obscurity. Rich drove among the potholes and corrugations faster than we had ever dared before. The only sounds in the car were the raking branches, spitting stones and barked instructions. “Pothole 1…Rut running 2 to 3…Wooden bridge 300…Wet ford 100m”. My heart was beating tight as a bowstring as we approached for the crossroads.


For 90 minutes we drove, all eyes pinned on the road ahead, Hole 1 to 2, Rock 3, All silent. All stock-still. The sound of the car shaking itself apart on the ruined road jarred. Rut 3, Rocks 2 to 3, Ford, may be wet

How far is it, 17km.

Rock 3, Ditch 1, Soft Sand for 50m, 3km now

We peered into the distance, eyes bloodshot now from staring, the junction appeared. It was dark, too dark to see if anything waited for us there. We approached at ramming speed and skidded through the junction without stopping. No one saw the pickup, but who could say in the dark. We drove on for five kilometers, regularly scanning the mirrors, nothing. Still not safe, but we were forced to stop for respite. Rich’s white fingers were peeled from the wheel and he was thrown in the back to recover. It was another hour before we reached the nearest town. Lights and people, at last. The tide of adrenaline receded slowly over a jittery beer and we collapsed into a motel to sleep.

Kenya: The Swahili Coast

Like a worried war-time family gathered around the wireless, we crowded around a small window in a Greek hotel room to see a torrent of protesters surge around the Landie, hurling rocks and abuse at the riot police. In Tahrir Square we ate roasted sweet potatoes bearing inverted impressions of the anti-government pamphlets in which they were wrapped. In Sudan the people marched in anger at the murder and concealment of two student protesters. It has felt to us as we have traveled that the world is in mutinous temper. Kenya revealed itself to be no exception.

While we were discovering Uganda and Rwanda, elections were taking place in Kenya. We had not particularly intended to avoid Kenya during this period but it was a happy coincidence considering their last elections were marred by quite widespread political and intertribal violence.  On our return we crossed Kenya quickly, arriving on the Swahili coast after only the briefest of stops to attend a party that confirmed every rumour we had heard about the Nairobi expatriate scene.


Our arrival was greeted with the warmest of welcomes from Bas’ parents, William and Lucy Wallace, and their friends Martin and Dawn Whetstone. A wonderful week was spent lounging by the pool, visiting idyllic beaches and mixing with the who’s who of the Malindi social scene. As we sipped cold beers in the Driftwood club we quickly forgot all about our intrepid expedition. We were delighted to be given the opportunity to speak at the Driftwood and tell a few of our tales as part of a cervical cancer screening fundraiser, which was excellent fun.


On our final night this paradise was sadly a little tarnished. While sitting up late trading safari stories with the Whetstones and Wallaces, conversation was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Five shots echoed from the night and then it was calm. For several minutes we waited for more, hushed, then a crescendo of automatic fire filled the air. The volleys became more regular as shots were traded. It was a pitched battle between two well-armed adversaries and the sound was close by. David, the askari,estimated that the shots were 200 metres away, near the beach. The clash continued for half an hour and then stopped suddenly.

Martin and Dawn were calm and pragmatic as one might expect from old hands in Africa. “We would have heard on the phone if there was something to worry about” said Dawn. We speculated that it might have been Somali pirates fighting the police. Raids on the North Kenya coast were more common a few years previously before the international navy presence in the Gulf of Aden was increased significantly. After a nightcap to settle the nerves we retired to bed.

In the morning, the town was going about business as usual, it takes more than a gunfight to upset the balance in Kenya. It transpired that the police had stumbled across a terrorist militia, training in an abandoned building by the beach. In the resulting battle 4 policemen and 8 militiamen had been killed. The remainder of the militia had scattered. The story at the Driftwood club was that Bob, an 80-year-old ex-pilot and policeman, had spent the night keeping watch on his roof with a rifle, while his two askaris patrolled the grounds. It seems that lessons learned in the Nairobi police force die hard.


With a fond farewell to the Martin, Dawn, William and Lucy we set off through Tsavo national park on our way towards Tanzania. A few hundred kilometers south and the wet season was in full swing, a mixed blessing. At 6 o’clock in the morning during a particularly miserable camp in the gravel of a petrol station forecourt we found ourselves in the heart of a tropical storm. It became apparent that we had pitched our tents in an almost imperceptible trench, which was quickly filled by the deluge, drowning us and all of our sleeping bags with us. On the other hand, however the recent rains had covered the, normally arid, Tsavo savannah with a lush green blanket. The red dirt track that transected the park was gaudy in its bright contrast to the insufferably verdant plains. The landscape was all the more beautiful, as one is so accustomed to seeing dry African savannah in wildlife documentaries.


The Tsavo national park was the stage for the story of the infamous Tsavo Lions. In 1898 the Leut. Col. John Henry Patterson led a project to build a bridge over the Tsavo river as part of the Great Kampala to Mombasa railway. During the project two male lions repeatedly broke into the camp by night and dragged the Indian workers away to devour them. In an effort to deter the animals Patterson built huge fires and thorn fences around the camp. For nine months he hunted the cats, wounding them on several occasions. Patterson attempted to trap the lions by equipping a train carriage with steel barred cage in which two workers slept as bait. In the morning he found the carriage destroyed and the workers abducted. After 135 lives had been lost Patterson finally killed the pair and their huge nine-foot skins spent the following 25 years as rugs in his home before they were retired to a museum in Chicago.

Episode 15: Uganda. Where Alki arrives, a mad Dan runs off to the Congo and the boys find gainful employment…

Part 3:

A gentleman is defined, not by the distance he keeps from his own, internal wildness, but by his ability to scrub up afterwards.

Iconic  (Photo: RWH)

Iconic (Photo: RWH)

Having left all chance of contact with the outside, Dan and Alki dropped off the edge of our map and headed to the border of the Congo. Here are some of the stories that eventually filtered back…

Many years later, as he faced the interview panel, Dr Daniel Nuth would recall that distant evening when he and Alkisti were taken to speak with spirits. They had travelled for several days, beyond the large roads and up into volcanoes, asleep in the clouds. These rolling rainmakers lay stacked in a ridge, under a blanket of jungle, climbing to snow. They held back a great spreading unknown; an immense, roadless, lawless canopy. Only rumours came back across the border, where endless river basins absorbed hidden villages, rival armies and fire capped mountains.

The people of the Rwenzori Mountains had an easy relationship with the overgrown slopes. Houses and farms were woven amongst the trees and any surprise intruder would be innocent to the scrutiny given them from the safety of the bush. The memory of the rebel raiding parties, wanton and brutal, lingered heavily.

(Photo: DN)

(Photo: DN)

They chanced upon a village school. A heavy set teacher, sweating into his shirt stood square to his blackboard. He struck out at a chalked word as he barked it.


The packed classroom of seven-year-olds fixed their determined eyes on the word and repeated with the staccato severity of a military drill.


Without pause the teacher moved on.


At the end of the lesson they were welcomed in. The children shuffled away uneasily as they sat among them.

“Hello,” Alki hazarded

Silent stares;

She remembered the importance of personal inquiries in Ugandan greetings.

“How are you?”

“WE ARE FINE!” came the kneejerk response. All children in the area were well trained in this exchange from the age of five.

The adjectives of the day were ‘sad’ and ‘shabby’.


Failing to find passage into the mystery beyond, Dan and Alki tracked south into Rwanda. Expecting to find a country reeling from its tortured past, they instead found a cosy utopia. Crisp, new roads crested over the wooded hills; uniformed police officers, bins, busses and traffic rules tidied the landscape. Among other acts of benevolence from the outside world, Irish cows were being airlifted in for their superior milk.

In the western mountains they made their way on foot through the thick rainforest. They joined a party on a trek destined for a bottomless crater lake. Exhausted at the humid summit they sought to wash themselves in the silver water. A terrified guide flung himself into their path, pleading for them to stop. They saw the fear in his eyes and hesitated. Why was the lake out of bounds?

“Nobody ever swims in the lake,” he warned “As we do not know how deep it is.”

He told them of the still, dark water that ran through the rock to the very heart of the earth. He told them about the magnets and about the Ox, which had jumped into the steep sides and had sunk without a trace.

“Can Oxen swim?” enquired Dan curiously.

An ominous glare sufficed for an answer.

They continued west through the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest; named from the scholarly belief that when the young earth froze, this was the only rainforest to keep the ice at bay. Finally they arrived at a wide river, where Rwanda ended and the Congo began.

A small town had grown up along the banks. A wooden bridge spanned the calm waters. They left Rwanda and crossed the frontier to try their luck. All the trucks were coming from the Congo, creaking over the mossy planks. They were laden with people.

A week ago the leader of M83, one of the larger rebel armies in eastern Congo, had turned himself in – voluntarily. Few were to greet the warlord’s resignation with optimism however. Something had driven him from his power base. These shifts in power usually spelled turbulent times ahead. Sure enough, the trucks brought news of renewed fighting.

(Photo: DN)

(Photo: DN)

They sat in the Spartan immigration office as the hours ticked by and it began to rain. Hurricane lamps were lit and the officials remained silent. The AK-47 is a sleek and arrogant tool that has spread to every corner of Africa and dan was familiar with their snarling barrels. However, they are usually slung lazy and unused, on the loose strap of a security guard of or policeman; their dormant barrels long since fired. These weapons seemed as veteran as their humourless owners; kept tight on the strap or brandished in ready hands. Eventually they were turned away and instructed to wait for approval from the immigration office in Kinshasa. They crossed back over the bridge in the dark. It was here they met the spirits at work.

A rhythmic chanting pounded the air and through a gap in the plank fence, plumes of white mist unfolded. A single spotlight dimly illuminated the scene. Kasava flour; mountains of it were piled up in the courtyard. Animated figures moved in and out of the cloud like pistons, wiry and bone white. As they moved closer they could see the porcelain faces. Cracks followed the lines of exertion around their dark, stony eyes. The flour golems moved in unison, shovelling their loads into sacks, held open by steady hands. Along the top of the heap of kasava roots, silhouettes climbed; sorting and pounding the edible roots.

Dan knelt down to take a photograph. A misfired flash broke the spell; stopped the scene dead. The sacks were dropped and everything was engulfed in clouds. Three faces emerged ahead and fixed the pair in their gaze.

“You do not take our pictures.” A voice announced with deep, flattened vowels.

“Who are you? Where are you going?”

Alki explained to the faces, which drifted in and out of sight in the fluctuant light. There was a pause and the clatter of work seemed to resume behind the interrogators.

“The land will never allow you in.” came a reply.

With that a pair of hands grabbed Dan’s shoulders and pulled him out of the settling dust. Back under a streetlight of the main track, a small, muscular man revealed himself.

“My name is Julius, you said you would go to Goma? I am from there. It is a very bad place.” He swung between French and English as he told them of his decision to flee the town. Many of his family had been brutally murdered or scattered in recent years. Goma, Dan and Alki’s chosen destination 100 miles downriver, was worse than ever. The strong preyed on the weak and the authorities extorted or robbed as much as the rebels. The fighting had also intensified in recent months.

“I can help you with the border posts, and you can bribe them,” he explained, “but any good guard would send you back.”

Two days later, they were indeed let across the border and into the Congo. Julius seemed to have a positive effect on the grim officials. However, after an afternoon’s drive into the interior, they were stopped at a road block and sent back. The border guard was a good man and it was too dangerous. They agreed it was time to head back to Uganda and re-join the expedition.


These were the shreds off stories that Rich and I, working in central Uganda, later heard. We would of course be reunited later as a group. Meanwhile, away from the hospital, we were trying to find some adventure of our own. When we weren’t on the wards, or rebuilding Tess, we would peruse the many street-side stalls of Iganga. Rows of kiosks and trays sold spiced kebabs and tender sweetmeats to the passing traffic. The ‘Rolex’ (omelette rolled in chapatti) became a staple. On the balcony of Sol bar, the trendy NGO worker hangout, we planned our weekends. Kat, Keeley and Morgan joined in our planning.

Our first weekend was spent on the banks of the White Nile as she left Lake Victoria, young and fresh, on her long journey north. We had last seen these wayfaring waters at Khartoum and had a lot to catch up on. If only she knew the changing lands and distant people she would meet. There was not much time for anthropomorphising however.

In the campsite we saw a familiar Landrover and motorbike. It was our old nemeses the ‘Cruising to Cape town’ boys and Claire (also overlanding to Cape Town). We had last seen them in Addis Ababa, as they set off before us on the Lake Turkana road. The stage was set for an eventful weekend. By day we would swim and rope swing on the riverbank. By night we would cook, eat and sample the delights of ‘David Beckham Gin’ (with the reassuring slogan: Clear Mornings Guaranteed). At the campsite bar we met a large NGO group called ‘One Acre’. They had called-in their volunteers for the upcoming Kenyan election and were having a bit of a party. The scene was set for merriment.

One lasting memory was of the Sunday night. There had been a slight misunderstanding over supper. We had been casually invited to eat at the One Acre buffet. However the restaurateur took issue with our apparent freeloading and demanded payment. He issued a warning in rounded South African syllables.

“You’re taking the piss guys. This is Africa. People disappear out here.”

We calmly explained that we were unable to pay but were prepared to sing for our supper. This seemed to diffuse the situation. Before we knew it, we had a concert on our hands. The word spread over the following day and another act signed up: A guitar-fiddle duo of legendary reputation. That evening a great fire was lit and an intimidating crowd gathered. Both acts gave it their all, taking it in turns to play and sing. The two chaps we were supporting were magnificent and our novelty seemed to be holding the crowd. We almost exhausted our entire repertoire. At 3am the crowd had thinned out and the adrenalin worn off. We returned to our tent, exhausted.

(Photo: DN)

(Photo: DN)

Tess was now looking healthier and was ready for the road. We took her up for a rainy weekend at Mount Elgon, on the Kenyan border. The car was loaded with fine food and drink and the camping gear prepared. An afternoons driving through the lush eastern farmland brought us to the foot of yet another Great Rift Valley volcano. As we wound up the switchback roads, a typically almighty storm broke. It was to last all night.

This however only increased the fun. Rich and I raised a great tarpaulin shelter and walled the sides. Hurricane lamps were lit and we clustered into a cosy circle. We were determined to show off how camping for us was an art that we had perfected. Pots, pans and spices clattered out and a great chilli-con-carne prepared over our single petrol stove. The glasses were charged with beer and stiff G+Ts to drive out the cold. The guitar was handed around and a fuzzy glow descended onto the evening’s memories.

The storm broke that night and in the clear morning we awoke to find that we had pitched camp on an immense cliff. Waterfalls in spate, crashed down to the flatlands below us. We spent the weekend exploring the caves and raging watercourses on the mountainside. We also met Jasper, a Danish ex-pat, African adventurer and former coach of the Ugandan Olympic cycling team. He had come to train for an upcoming road-bike event on the mountainside. We bonded over music and stories of Africa. We arranged to meet up in Kampala.

We arrived in the Capital for the following bank holiday weekend ready for a much needed break from work. Kampala is a fun, easy going city, that doesn’t seem to sleep. Like many capitals the traffic system renders the roads unusable for most of the day. We saw in Friday, mingling in restaurants and bars, an experience we had almost forgotten on our long road through North-eastern Africa.

We met up with Jasper, who we found to be a bottomless well of knowledge on Africa and seemingly friends with everyone in Uganda. He recommended the restaurant of a good friend and some good bars. Rich, Kat, Keeley and I expressed our desires to push on west to the Rwenzori Mountains, jealous of the stories filtering back from Dan and Alki. Jasper put us in contact with his friend Benjamin, who lived out by the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest on one of the crater lakes. We left Kampala the following morning.


It was a long day’s drive after a long night but the Ugandan roads were of excellent quality. Benjamin had to arrange a friend to meet us at Fort Portal, the Rwenzori frontier town. It was dark and we had driven the length of the country. We were pushing ourselves hard. An hour’s drive on forest tracks made it clear that we would not have found him ourselves.

Spotlights glaring, we slipped and climbed along a muddy off-road track and met him outside his house. With the engine off, the jungle closed in. Benjamin was warm and welcoming with dreadlocks and a smooth French accent. He had worked for the Red Cross in most of the trouble spots of Africa over the last decade and had settled in this remote but peaceful corner of Uganda. He had a small wooden house and a few acres of land sloping down to the lake. Here he was creating his own Eden; nurturing hundreds of species of rare trees, plants and flowers, which in turn had attracted an array of bird and animal life from the forest. Monkeys, Forest elephants and even Chimpanzees had been sighted around the house.  As well as the local people for company, a lone male Hippo had recently appeared in the lake and was a regular visitor onto his land, although only cautious attempts had been made at befriending it.

A night time tour of the forest was abandoned when we were driven out by army ants so we retreated back to the candle lit cabin. We listened to Benjamin’s stories of life in Somalia and the Congo and ate cheese, bread and forest fruits. We then retired to pitch our tents by the lake. Nobody was trampled by a Hippo that night.

In the morning we realised why Benjamin had chosen this place. The morning sun glowed through the High buttress root trees and in the canopy monkeys, hornbills and great blue torracos hopped between branches. Flowers exploded out of the undergrowth and everything was wet and earthy. The lake was still and, apart from the bank where we had camped, walled by mossy granite. Benjamin came down to join us for a swim (true to form in tight, French Speedos). We checked the water for Hippos and dived in.

Another day’s drive brought us into the mountains, where Dan and Alki had traversed before us. Rainclouds obscured the snowy caps and the sheer, forested sides looked like they might rise up forever. We celebrated Saint Patrick’s Day with a Guinness sitting on the west side of the range, the great Congo basin spanning before us. We trekked up into the hills, soaked in rain. The paths were slicked in red mud and the sparse inhabitants vanished into the elephant grass as we approached. When the clouds closed in, it was easy to get lost.

We camped down in the thin strip of forest between the Rwenzoris and the Congo border, where we were allowed to stay in the ranger’s compound for free. The extra shelter proved invaluable against the ensuing downpour. It remains the most violent deluge I have ever seen.


The long drive back to Iganga began the following day at 6am and finished at 9pm. Our way was guided by the steady flashes of lightning in the eastern horizon. We were fatigued to our absolute limit but had managed to see a good deal of the country without sacrificing much time from our work.

A week later we were reunited with Dan and Alki and it was time to say our goodbyes to a country that had given us an unconditional welcome and so many stories.

Episode 15: Uganda. Where Alki arrives, a mad Dan runs off to the Congo and the boys find gainful employment…

Part 2:

Iganga Hospital is a 200-bed district general hospital run, and largely funded by the government. It has male, female, paediatric and maternity wards, an outpatients department, pharmacy, laboratory, x-ray, ultrasound and an operating theatre. The gate opened straight out onto the main road and once inside there was always a great crowd shifting around the white buildings. Clusters of outpatients, families preparing food and mothers strapped to their infants would sit in the shade of the avocado trees.


If there was a rota, or system of job allocation, we never found it. However our day-to-day-role in the hospital was quickly established. We did a brief spell in the humdrum of outpatients with the cheerful Senior Clinical Officer. This acquainted us with the disease burden, the tests and the limited array of treatments available. However, the outpatient conveyor belt was reasonably well staffed and it became quickly apparent that we would be most useful on the wards.

A pay dispute with the ministry of health had shifted the attention of many doctors toward their private clinics. Appearances were limited to sporadic, fly-by reviews for the sickest patients and a weekly ward round. Specialist teams from the bigger hospitals would occasionally appear, friendly and unannounced. Despite finding written evidence in the notes from mysterious evening visits, it was three days before we met another doctor.

Running the wards were ward sisters dressed in nightingale-era uniforms, commanding a milling shoal of nursing students. White-coated Clinical Officers were appointed to each ward. The ‘C.O.’ is a great African compromise. They train for only three years with a more practical slant and gain their experience on the job. They admit, diagnose, prescribe and make decisions in lieu of the doctors input. They cost a fraction of a doctor’s salary. We found them to be excellent for treating the common, uncomplicated conditions such as malaria. The problem was that they didn’t have enough doctor contact for feedback on the decisions they had made. This usually meant that anyone without a clear diagnosis would tend to get all the bases covered with a combination of antibiotics, high-dose steroids, anti-malarials and various other contradicting combinations. In a job that relied on practical experience, nobody was taking the time to provide feedback or explain the clinical reasoning for management. In short, whilst their moments of good practice were repeated, so were the mistakes.


Both with some experience of Hospitals in Africa, Rich and I were prepared for a fewer clinical options, a less systematic approach and general inertia. We were also very mindful of our brief intrusion into hospital and how minimal our impact would probably be. We had to pick our battles. A daily, systematic ward round seemed like a good place to start. Initial management was usually as optimal as the resources would allow. However even post-surgical patients could then sit and get better or worse without being regularly reviewed.

The male and female wards were long squat buildings with corrugated iron roofs, crowded with patients in closely packed iron beds, usually surrounded by their families sitting and sleeping on mats (who were cleared out for drugs/ ward rounds). There were no cubicles or curtains, although there was one set of screens. Despite this, there was always a calm, easy atmosphere. Every morning we would arrive to a welcome of protracted handshakes and somewhat undeserved congratulations. Everyone was doing what they could. The patients would lie stoically as they improved or deteriorated with treatment and nature took its course.

If there had not been a senior visit that day, Rich and I would divide up the ward into two rounds. The clinical officers would often join us but if they were too busy, there were usually five or six attentive nursing students each, competitively keen to learn, translate and run errands. Our ward rounds would often include quite a lot of bedside teaching. When the senior doctor did their weekly ward round, we would follow in the throng, presenting the patients we had become familiar with. These were always lengthy, slightly jovial affairs with lots of academic discussions in English and difficult questions fired at the petrified nursing students.

By mid-morning, the sun beat down on the thin roof and the humidity was asphyxiating. At 2pm, we would walk the short distance home and quickly change into shorts. Here, the worries of the day would be overshadowed (quite literally) by an enormous and extravagant lunch. Mountains of rice, matoke (mashed Plantain) or poshe (mashed millet) piled with rich beef of ground-nut stews. We were spoiled. By this time, the afternoon heat would have built to a sweltering climax in anticipation of the evening storm. We usually needed a siesta before heading back in.

Rich and I both pride ourselves on our ability to befriend the ward sisters, which I maintain is the single most important skill a young doctor can possess. However it was the Clinical Officers whose toes we were treading on. They were essential to our integration on the ward; they knew the patients and were able to turn requests into actions. Every morning it was them who would take us to review the patients they were worried about. We were careful to maintain a dynamic of working together as equals and remain magnanimous. It was important to explain the changes we suggested and agree on them together. It wasn’t always easy. One particular patient caused a tense but cordial debate between me and the clinical officer who was determined for me to drain the fluid out of a certain patient’s abdomen with a tap. I thought that this was dangerous and largely unnecessary but despite the protracted courtesies, neither of us would change our stance.  The patient left of their own accord before the matter was settled.


Although the ward rounds were largely harmonious, turning the plan in the patient’s notes into action was a greater challenge. There was no formal ward list, no jobs list and a very casual system of delegation. Any tests had to be pushed-for relentlessly or done oneself. Furthermore any progress could hit a brick wall if the equipment or drugs were not available that day. Needles and gloves for example, were at a premium and guarded by the ward sister. Cost to patient was another common show-stopper. Save for critical emergencies, all equipment, medication and tests had to be paid for by the patient’s family who often would struggle with the bill. The ‘disappearing patient’ became an expected phenomenon. The tense, swollen belly of a patient with ‘nephrotic syndrome’, a fever who’s origin remained hidden from all tests or an HIV positive man stable but in a coma; we would ponder, discuss, research and plan, only to find another patient in their bed the next morning. It was hard to get a straight answer as to where they had gone. Whilst some had been taken to a bigger hospital, died or recovered, it is likely that many simply returned home when their families to fight their illness without our help.

We were doctors by day and mechanics by night. In our spare time we were had a lot of work to undo the ravages the journey had inflicted on our car. The first half of Africa, especially the endless rocks and corrugations of the Lake Turkana road, had shredded our tyres, and left our suspension a sorry state. We were also dripping from several points. We replaced a lesion of bushes, gaskets oils seals and wheel bearings, serviced the engine and installed new tubeless all-terrain tyres. The age of the puncture was over. Every morning, we would furiously scour our fingers to remove the oil, dirt and grease ready for the wards.

The case-load differed wildly from the UK. The prevalent infectious diseases which we became familiar with were once in a lifetime diagnoses back at home. Brucellosis, bilharzia, and typhoid were endemic, as were tuberculosis, syphilis and HIV in their countless manifestations. Sleeping sickness, virtually eradicated a decade ago had made a steady comeback owing to the fact that the expensive anti-microbial needed to treat it, became unprofitable to manufacture as the demand waned. At any one time, malaria took up a third of the beds. In fact, most unwell patients, no matter what their underlying diagnosis, probably had malaria compounding the problem.

Forgot to put the hand brake on?  (Photo: DN)

Forgot to put the hand brake on? (Photo: DN)

Trauma cases were also very common and had the power to spring all staff into action. The majority came from the country’s primary road, which ran outside the hospital. Children were often the victims and whilst the hospital could manage simple fractures, we were limited beyond that. Once stable, we would try and refer these patients to Jinja, the nearest city, four hours away. This was usually a problem as the family were expected to pay for the ambulance. We had two paediatric head injuries in the space of a week. One had fallen from a mango tree, sustaining a deep depression skull fracture. He was conscious but with a weak leg, corresponding to the area of brain injury. The second was unconscious and seizuring, having been hit by a truck. Their right pupil was blown out; a bad sign. We controlled the seizures and the patient’s level of consciousness improved. We also managed to persuade the x- ray department to take a ‘trauma series’ free of charge (a set of x-rays surveying neck, ribs; pelvis etc). With both cases there was a long delay whilst the family dashed around borrowing money for an ambulance. Although the ambulance had been donated by the UK government, there were no funds available for diesel or a driver. Patients would sometimes decide to take crowded public transport instead.

The patients were, on average a much younger demographic then the U, if they could get good early management it was amazing how they could bounce back into good health. However they would only come in when they were really unwell. Severe malaria was often a positive example. Children especially would come in profoundly unwell. Fluids, Anti-malarials, antibiotics and not to forget glucose (malaria causes hypoglycaemia) and they could be sitting up and eating in a 24 hours. HIV patients were of course an exception to this; the end-stage of the disease being a slow loss of ground to recurrent infections.

As our time there lengthened, we learned how to play the game. Even in the hyper-systemised NHS, every hospital has its knacks, shortcuts and magic words; its go-to people, favours and trusted professional relationships. Iganga wasno different. A good example was with a man who was brought in unconscious, although breathing slowly and seemingly stable. The only other history we were able to illicit, was is his positive HIV status. We did what we could, but he needed referring. We had learned that research projects often funded patient treatment, so we made an urgent referral to the Cryptococcal Meningitis Research Programme in Kampala. He was accepted the following day as a possible diagnosis. Unfortunately we don’t know what happened after that.

Of course we didn’t spend all our time at work. Also in the hospital, we met Kat, a medical student from Boston who would often join us for a ward round and escape with us for coffee. In the Sol café, a bar popular with NGO workers and Peace Core volunteers we also met Keeley and Morgan, who were working on projects nearby. Together we began to plan a few trips away to see a bit of Uganda.

I was finishing a ward round with Rich and Kat one morning when I received a text message. It was from a Rwandan number I didn’t recognise. It read:

Crossing_the_DRC_border_today._Back_in_six_days._If_not_back_send_condolences_to relevant_loved_ones._Dan_and_Alki.

(Photo: DN)

(Photo: DN)

Episode 15: Uganda. Where Alki arrives, a mad Dan runs off to the Congo and the boys find gainful employment…

Part 1:


Children on the DRC border March 13 2013


Six feet in a drumroll

syncopate with the downpour,

rasping on broad-leaf snares.


In an instant, we meet

under haphazard semaphore,

tumbling shrieks cut short.


Each of us receiving a face;

a frozen, flash photograph;

glossy and sleek, panting clouds.


 Charging steep, you lead the game.

Mouth set in mirth,

faster eyes widened, alarmed.


The jerk of a knee,

the blade of a foot

slid sharp into slick, scarlet mud.


Darting, they dive like sunbirds,

rippling over the edge, free-

falling through elephant grass.


Crashing to a crouch,

enveloped in bush,

the rain’s chattering fuzz.


Bold with invisibility,

a chorus of greeting.

The intruders are tested.


“How are YOU?”

“We are fine.”

“We are FINE.”


Screeches of relief, of

novelty, of connection

are echoed from below

                              and above

                                     and ahead

                                            and behind.

(Photo: DN)

(Photo: DN)

  The Lake Turkana crossing had provided a spark of adventure to which none of us could compare. With our Swiss friends, we had become a close convoy, moving through a wild, lawless and occasionally hostile landscape; making and breaking camp; guiding our vehicles over a thousand empty miles of rock, sand and bush.

 Blinking and bewildered we hit the smooth tarmac of South/central Kenya, one of the most developed belts on the continent. Amazed, we watched our average speed jump from 14mph to 55mph. There were people, shops, lorries, noise and lights all around. Was this really the same country where remote police outposts were perpetually battling tribal bandits to bring law?

Tess rolls over the rocks in the midday heat (Photo: RWH)

Tess rolls over the rocks in the midday heat (Photo: RWH)

Once on proper roads, we sped to the Ugandan border, leapfrogging the freight. The rain clouds gathered. We were late for our placement at Iganga hospital where we were to spend the next months. We were also late to meet Alkisti (Alki), Dan’s girlfriend who had flown out from Australia to meet us.

 At the border, we were subject to many questions whilst trying to stamp out of Kenya. The way we had arrived from Ethiopia, there were no border posts for hundreds of miles. We had never been stamped in. Our first contact with Kenyan immigration was trying to leave. There was a good chance we would have to iron out this bureaucratic glitch in Nairobi. Fortunately, an understanding senior stamped us through just as the clouds broke.

  Uganda was two weeks into its rainy season, defined by slow-building pressure and humidity, preceding earth-shattering thunderstorms. At night you could sometimes drive by the flashes of lightening alone. The heavy greens and flooded fields were a world away from the barren scrubland and dry bush we had recently been living in. Barefooted men and women worked the fields under rounded hills where the last shreds of jungle still clung.

 The postcolonial history of Uganda is well know for its brutality and harrowing atrocities. Civil war, Idi Amin and child soldiers all spring to mind. Joseph Koni, the paranoid leader of the Lords Resistance Army, famous for child abduction, mutilation and inflicting bizarre punishments for breaking the Ten Commandments, is still at large in the Congo and fresh in the memory of the northern states. Musavene, the president, is hardly a democratic leader and also has a warlike past. All this said, Uganda was probably the easiest and most pleasant country we had visited so far. The people were witty, cheerful and polite with fantastic, slightly old-world English. Everything, from farms to roads, gave the impression that things were working. The rain, left hand driving and roundabouts gave the place a homely feel.

(Photo: DN)

(Photo: DN)

 The entrepreneurial spirit was taking root in this nation. Advertising billboards, a concept we had almost forgotten in Sudan, Ethiopia and Somaliland. Competed like rainforest trees for all available space. Mass advertising (as much as we hate it in the UK) is a reliable sign of an affluent middle class, meaning a smaller Rich-Poor divide and a more stable country. The Ugandan Passion and hyperbole came out in the many of these signs, plastered on the numerous vehicles and small businesses.. They made British advertising seem drab and understated. A few favourites included:

‘Winning beer for winning men’

Doctor Millionaire’s Hotel,

Hero’s Stopover (and booze den)

Maganatu tea ‘I take things personally’

‘Choose ‘A’ for abstinence’

Sandolin paint ‘Trust no one else!’

Mzuzu coffee ‘Through research, we discovered our coffee gives more health benefits than pleasure.’

‘What a Pilsner drinker wants, a pilsner drinker gets’

Metro Signs ‘A business without a sign is a sign of no business’

‘This bus is drenched in the blood of Jesus’

and the winner… ‘The King of Love, Vampire Clan Unisex Hair Salon and Barbers (the clan is for both whites and blacks, one blood)’.

(Photo: DN)

(Photo: DN)

 For the first time on the continent, we even found real-life westerners in large numbers. Uganda, as well as being a growing holiday destination, is Africa’s biggest NGO worker honey-pot, diffusing them out to the farthest villages. Everyone in Africa has their opinions on the effectiveness of NGOs, from the positive to the disillusioned. Staying out of this argument, it’s worth contributing the point that the NGO workers, drinking in local cafes, bars and eating in small restaurants create a huge amount of business. They also integrate far better than fly-by tourists. It was certainly nice for us to have a captive audience for our stories.

 Halfway along the main road from Kenya to Kampala, lay the bustling truck stop-town of Iganga. We arrived at dusk to a riot of lumbering freight, packed minivans, noisy bars and a thousand smoking food stalls. We let Dan go up to the hotel bar first to meet Alki before we followed.

 Alki had last seen Dan in Istanbul three months ago. Since then Dan had undergone a change. His stylish coiffured look had been overgrown by a thicket of beard and hair. Only a tiny portion of his face remained. He perpetually wore a headband made of two socks with Cargo shorts and a vest top. The real changes, however, had happened underneath the tangle of hair.  As he had writhed in and out of consciousness in the Ethiopian bush, wrestling with a fever, something had called him. Adrift on the dark ocean of delirium, he had held on to this alluring force, a distant drumming in time with his pulse, an atavistic summons from the heart of the jungle. When his illness was driven out, his wide-eyed, distant stare remained. Some mornings, we would find him awake before us, staring South over the horizon, as if drawn to something.

 “I’m not coming to work with you in the hospital.” He announced at the reunion supper.

 “I’m going into the Congo.” He paused, seemingly entranced.

“and I’m taking Alki with me.

That night, the background strobe of far-away lightning heralded an almighty deluge that washed away the last memories of the dust and the desert. In the morning, Dan and Alki were gone.

Much needed coffee stop  (Photo: RWH)

Much needed coffee stop (Photo: RWH)

 On that same crisp, wet morning Rich and I met David. David was a head-teacher turned governor of the local school and a tireless community leader.  After the Hospital had accepted our CVs, he offered to look after us and to put us up. It didn’t take us long to realise how lucky we were to have him as a host. David lived with his family in a quiet corner of the town, next to the hospital. We creaked our car into his compound and piled our dusty luggage into the guest annex. We met the household who were equally welcoming: Prossie, his wife; Paula, Caroline and Susan, who would continuously help us out, laugh at our poor clothes washing technique and prepare us lavish meals; and the three present children, who were to become enthusiastic helpers with the work on the car.

  It is difficult to describe how worn by the road we had become but Tess (the car) is more quantifiable. The tyres were cracked and bald and the suspension sagging. The transfer box, front and rear differential had joined in a trio to drip on the floor. It was going to need some serious work. David kindly said that we were welcome to use the compound as our garage.

  Our plan was to work on the car and find new parts, in our free-time out of hospital. We were also hopeful to see the country on our weekends and catch up with all the reading and writing projects we had neglected. Surely there would be plenty of time in the following month…

Bandits! (The Lake Turkana Road Part III)

It was about on day two that the bushes on our rear suspension failed. Long suffering, these rubber buffers prevent a metal on metal clash in the suspension components. Although this didn’t halt our progress, it made us wince every time we hit a medium to large bump, which happened about every three seconds. It did nothing for our confidence as we had days of off road still to drive, and it sounded as though the car was falling apart! Fortunately Land Rovers are built of stern stuff, and Tess struggled on.

We pulled into Loyangolani, the first convincing Kenyan settlement towards the south end of the lake with two flat spares. We breakfasted, wincing despite ourselves as the gomister (tyre repair guru) bashed our tyres off the rim with a sledge hammer. Punctures fifteen and sixteen. I did a complete double take as a young man wandered past wearing the Exeter University rugby team strip. I recognised it from a hundred yards, as several of our friends played for the university during medical school. He had bought it from the local shop, and had no idea why I was so excited – garments are purely functional here, and he spoke not a word of English. I returned to my chapatti and chai and wondered whose footsteps we were following.

We were a full four days drive into Kenya before we found ourselves on a road that could be classified as having two carriageways. We were unpleasantly surprised to find ourselves on the wrong side of the road when a great pickup full of jackfruit came tearing around the corner. There was barely time to wonder at the irony of this given the amount of times we have rounded corners in Africa to find our carriageway occupied by something with big momentum and small brakes. We swerved back to the left for first time since England, and rattled on our way.

Celebrations in N Kenya

Team beer on Dan’s Birthday (Photo: DN)

We found a particularly beautiful riverbed surrounded by acacia trees and steep hills. The shadows were lengthening and we had business: it was Dan’s birthday. We turned ‘upstream’, away from the deserted road, and slid our way into the forest. There in the safety of the bush, we celebrated with precious Ethiopian beer, cherished single malt, and well travelled Swiss fondue.

We set off late the next day, perhaps not as sharp as usual after the celebrations. As we passed west of Baragoi at the southern end of the lake, we were waved through a fairly significant military checkpoint. There’s a heavy military presence up here, and we read no significance from its existence. A few more kilometres and one of the Swiss’ tyres falls victim to the sharp rocks on the track. Well practised, they swapped over their wheel while we made the team some coffee (just what you need in the midday heat!). We crouched in the six inches of shade that the car threw this close to the equator, and waved as a church group passed in a Land Cruiser, priests in the front, children leaning cheerfully out of the back. We commented on its passage as even this far into Kenya another vehicle on the road was still a noteworthy event. I saw Bass and Michael, one of the Swiss, exchange glances and a raised eyebrow as we packed up, but thought nothing of it, as none of us really understand how Bass interacts with anyone.

As we rounded the next corner, barely two minutes after the church group, we knew something was very wrong. A hundred yards ahead, the Land Cruiser lay was splayed at an odd angle, its doors swinging. The children huddled in the back, and we could see the priest and driver sitting by the car, head in hands. We stopped, and took a moment to scout the situation. This was setting off all sorts of alarm bells. This was perfect ambush territory.

We approached cautiously, game faces on, hearts thumping. There was thick vegetation on each side of the road, good cover for villains. I could see bullet holes aplenty down the side of the Land Cruiser. There was an oil spray from the engine block. The windscreen was shot out, as were the back windows. We crouched by their car.

Bandits attack in N Kenya

Bullet holes in the children’s compartment (Photo: DN)

The priest greeted us eagerly: he had a split brow, and was nursing his arm, which was cut and bleeding. We quickly asked about casualties. None hit, both adults assaulted with rifle butts and robbed. Six bandits, AK47s, they had apparently fled. There were two children missing, who had run off into the bush.

We herded the group towards our Land Rover, and squashed them inside or planted them on the roof. We made the executive decision to go for back up before searching for the two that were lost to the bush. Speeding across the rocky piste with eleven people aboard really put Tess through her paces. We passed a band of men, perhaps seven strong, all with rifles on the road about a kilometre back. They looked at us innocently; we could see no animal herds nearby, no reason for them to be together and armed. They chose to ignore our passing. We made it back to the military block unscathed. Afterwards, I thought again about this unknown platoon, who could so easily have turned on us. How can you tell the difference between an armed shepherd and a roving robber? Fighting any guerrilla war must be impossibly difficult.

Inside the car, the mood was business. The children had recovered somewhat, and sat quietly. We have not a drop of military training between us, but thankfully we’re all used to being in high pressure situations because of our jobs, and this kept our heads cool. We piled out, and quickly informed the officer in charge of events. He explained that this was a trouble spot (although they had neglected to mention this to us at the roadblock!), and that they frequently had fatal attacks on this road. They did not have any vehicles at that outpost however, so they would have to use our two cars and a third volunteer who needed to pass through. We were dispatched back with a roof full of soldiers, the priest, the driver, and the children. The Land Cruiser was as we had left it, a sadly disabled hulk. The soldiers fanned out to form a perimeter. Looking again, I realised how lucky the occupants had been. There was a hole through the cab two inches about the driver’s head rest, and holes throughout the back compartment. The children must have hit the deck at the sound of the first shot, otherwise many of them would have been hit.

Bandits attack in Kenya

A soldier perches on Tess as we rig up a tow rope (Photo: RWH)

The soldiers asked whether we would tow the Cruiser to the next town, 30km west. We agreed that we would try, given that it meant we would also have an armed escort for that leg. Rigging up a tow ling took minutes thanks to a medical degree misspent rock climbing, and we crawled away, leaving two soldiers to continue the search for the missing children. We never found out what happened to them, but no more gun shots were heard after the initial assault, so we can only hope for the best.

I had planted myself in the driver’s seat of the Land Cruiser. There’s quite an art to towing off road, a recoiling cable breaking windows is not unheard of, and I wanted to be responsible if we damaged Tess. Two bullets had gone right into the engine block, and I knew that turning the engine over would just damage it further. Tess crawled forwards, puffing on the incline with Dan at the wheel, and we started to move. The strap would go suddenly slack as we descended a rise, then slap taught again. It required our full attention. We were wired.

The tow seemed to last forever as we ascended and descended rough hill passes. The priest described how they had rounded the corner and six men had opened fire without so much as a warning. The car had stalled and rolled to a halt, and the men had advanced brandishing their guns. They had taken all valuables at gun point, hitting the adults with their rifle butts. They had scarpered, just as we had rounded the corner.

I was assembling this story piecemeal, as I concentrated on the towing. I could hear the children talking in low voices through the bullet hole behind me. That missile would have gone straight through my head had I been driving; luckily Kenyans tend to be a few inches shy in height. Ahead I could see the Land Rover slipping and skidding on the loose rocky roads, and at one point I could clearly see chunks of rubber been torn from our rear tyres. Those aged and cracked shoes had served us well, but 15,000 miles, 16 punctures, and one blow out later they were finally giving up the ghost. When we eventually limped in to the town the steel bands were visible in more than one. We were thanked by the church, but departed shortly, conscious that we still had a fair way to go and darkness was falling.

That evening we camped on the shores of Lake XXXXXX. It was a sober group that sat around the fire and sipped a much needed beer. We could not dismiss the idea that it was our cars that the bandits were after, that they may have had a friend phone ahead from the village we had just driven though. Their spoils would have been a hundred fold had they targeted us instead. We were shaken by the days experiences, but not as much as we should have been. I don’t think any of us has let the reality of how near our miss was sink in – after all, we still have three months to spend in this continent. We retired to bed early, Bass and I in our tent, Dan and Dario in the Swiss’ roof tent, Michael in his hammock. I fell into a deep sleep, exhausted.

A raunchy young bull hippo (Photo: DN)

A raunchy young bull hippo (Photo: DN)

Although Africa has a reputation for having a relaxed pace of life, sometimes it can push you to your limits. At about three AM (why does everything happen at three AM!?) I was jerked awake by a hand slapped over my mouth. Bass was rigid beside me, and even as I tried to protest I was shaken by an ear splitting roar from just outside the tent. Sticking our eyes to the corners of the tent, we could see a young bull hippo about nine yards away, bellowing to its floozy along the shore in some sort of antisocial courting ritual. We could see Michael in his hammock behind it, trying to think himself into the landscape. These creatures kill more people in Africa than any other, by quite some margin. They are terrifying. The hippo took a minute to ponder our existence, moving closer to the tent and rippling the very fabric of the air with his snorts. At length he decided that his hormones were more important than his curiosity, and he stomped off in the direction of the distant bellowing female, his four ton body weight squelching great holes into the mud as he did so. Dan and Dario lay giggling in the sanctum of the roof tent, but the rest of us were too tired and shocked to communicate. We lay back without a word, blissfully comatose until the morning.

The joy with which we celebrated the advent of Kenyan tarmac was testimony to our knackered suspension. Its clunking had worsened bump by bump, and we were on day twelve by now. We slipped Tess back into High Range and turned west. Slowly civilisation started to win back. Nomads became few, homesteads frequent, and market towns appeared on the horizon. The density of AK 47s dropped off too, much to our relief. We exchanged rocks for lorries, and by the evening of the second tarmac day, we had joined the freight train of lorries that snake their way from Mombasa to Kampala. We were headed towards Uganda, the ‘Pearl of Africa’, and rain.

Hypnotic Adventures (The Lake Turkana Road Part II)

Just before you read the next installment, we would like to thank eveyone who has suported us by reading this blog, and by kind emails and messages. It has really meant a lot when the chips are down to know that people are thinking of us back home.

We are now well over half way, and have clovered over 15,000 miles. If you have enjoyed reading this blog, or are as surprised as we are that we have made it this far, please consider donating to our charities. 100% of your donations go to charity, this expedition is completely funded by us! Just click the red ‘donate’ button on the right of your screen. Thank you.

Tess rolls over the rocks in the midday heat (Photo: RWH)

Tess rolls over the rocks in the midday heat (Photo: RWH)

There is no manned border on the Turkana road, and travellers are required to stamp exit paperwork in the remote Ethiopian town of Omorate, some 100km before the border. There is no Kenyan office at all, and anyone crossing this way must essentially enter illegally until they can reach Nairobi, or an exit border. It is sufficiently far south and west from Addis that any return journey is unthinkable, a fact the Ethiopian customs officer obviously takes advantage of on a regular basis. His exit stamps remained very much in their drawer in his dusty little office as he inhaled air through his teeth and inspected our documents. He smirked at us and shook his head.

“There is a problem with these papers” he said, leaning back in his chair and framing himself rather nicely against the huge anti corruption poster on the wall behind him as he did so. “I cannot let you pass. You must return to Addis”.

My sharp response was to request his name, rank, and commanding officer’s details, as well as to comment on his moral fibre, or lack thereof. Luckily my tongue refused to comply with both simultaneous commands, and instead I managed a sort of strangled smirk. I was annoyed at myself. We should be used to these sorts of situations by now, and it feels like a personal failure when you let yourself blood rise. It was obvious what this chap was looking for, but I was reluctant to offer him undeserved backshish for a fabricated problem. Corruption is a big problem in Africa (and unsurprisingly has been found to inversely correlate with the economic development of a country), but we had been pleasantly surprised about how upstanding officials had been thus far, with the hugely expensive exception of Egypt. Admittedly we have perfected the art of making things as difficult as possible for the overly inquisitive officer (our papers are in Addis; can I see your regulations for that offence?; you must take us to the police station for that; can we have a receipt for that fine?; let me just call my embassy and ask their advice). Even so, most frustrations arise from general system failure and incompetence rather than individual corruption.

The springs of the officer’s chair squealed in relief as he levered himself to his feet and sidestepped purposefully around his desk. I had regained my composure, and allowed myself to be led by the hand into a dark corner. Eventually we came to a reluctant and secret agreement. He produced his ink and pocketed our Jackson in one smooth movement, and left me flapping the damp page in my passport and pondering a sad last interaction with a country that had proved to be more alien and wonderful than we could have expected.

We had stayed the night before quite unexpectedly with none other than a Hubertus Von Pachmann. The man was everything his name promised. He had found us on the banks of the Omo, near Omorate, peering into the murky waters and wondering if the crocodiles were absent enough to allow a quick swim. We had happened to stray onto the grounds of a huge farm during our search for a swimming spot, and had bumped into none other than the Austrian manager of a 20,000 hectare property. From his appearance he was in every way the white African, from his toothy grin to his khaki shorts and sheath knife. Life out here was lonely, he told us, many hundreds of kilometres from the capital, and many thousands of kilometres from his wife and children back in Austria. Hubertus was of a persuasive nature, and we soon found ourselves abandoning our swim and settling in with beers and grilled Nile Perch in his back yard. We watched the Southern Cross work its way across the horizon as we heard about the life of a man who had grown up in Rhodesia, volunteering with the elite Selous Scouts when the fight for independence came. He had farmed in Rhodesia, Somalia, and Angola to name but a few, and found himself unable to leave a continent where he had spent and risked his life so many times. As we ate he smelt the rain, long before we caught a whiff, and sure enough thunder caps soon obscured the constellations.

It poured. It should have been a time for celebration, jubilation. We had not seen rain for a full three months, and this was rain as only the tropics can muster. It bounced several feet off the concrete, thundered on the steel roof, cascaded through our ill fitting Land Rover doors to soak our worldly belongings. We sat silently, conscious of the endless river crossings we would have to face over the next few days, fully aware of our inexperience. Hubertus remained cheerful, told us this was a “just a spot of rain. Ja, it will be sucked up by the morning”. He was of course right. Dry as a bone, we set off the next morning refreshed and inspired.

The turning to Turkana was unmarked, unused, unceremonious. Had it been in the UK it would have barely qualified as a farm track. We exchanged wry smiles, selected Low Range, and turned south. We were excited and nervous, and for the next week every jolt, every new noise was an irreparable mechanical fault.

The rocky road (Photo: RWH)

The rocky road (Photo: RWH)

Everything seemed exaggerated here. The bush was wilder and more vicious, the river beds huge and treacherous, some hundreds of meters wide – but blissfully empty. The heat was more intense, reaching 45 degrees at midday when the sun would cast no shadow from a man. The road alternated between deep sand and large pebbles, which chattered angrily as we drove over them. I was transported by the sound to the winter swells raking the stones on St Agnes beach. Lake Turkana stretched across the western horizon just like that ocean so many miles away. We couldn’t shake the feeling how far we were from home, or anywhere else for that matter. It seemed an eternity since we had departed from the cold, misty headland of Droskyn. Here the nearest help was a minimum of two days drive in every direction. We carried all we would need: fuel, water, and food for 600km of wilderness, as well as a best guess of tools and spares that may prove essential.

Nomads in Lake Turkana

Nomads move their herds around this hostile environment (Photo: RWH)

As we drove we passed the occasional nomad in traditional garb, looking strikingly at home in their hostile environment. They shepherded great herds of camels and the ancient horned Ankole-Watusi cattle from one frazzled patch of grass to another. Everyone here has a high velocity rifle slung over their shoulder, oiled and ready. Being from a land where the most lethal weapon on show is a taser, guns make us nervous. It would be so easy for any of these men to relieve us of all we had and leave us to expire in this beautiful wasteland. We were greeted however with nothing but waves and stares, by people whose borders were tribal, not international. Addis Ababa and Nairobi were words whispered by the wisest of elders; these people are governed by the same rules today as a thousand years ago, and the Ethiopian Kenyan border is but an arbitrary line drawn by unknown, un-witnessed colonial powers.

Scouting the dry riverbed (Photo: RWH)

Scouting the dry riverbed (Photo: RWH)

We were in convoy with ‘the Swiss’, whose Vauxhall Frontera struggled to keep up with even our rheumatic vehicle.  Multiple times, they beached on the central islands that separated the ruts of the track. Each time, we would strive and sweat in the searing sun to dig them out. Tess groaned and roared, but each time succeeded where we had not in pulling them free. We were glad of their company, unshakable cool temperaments, and psy-trance music. Several times the path was lost, or proved impassable, and we struggled to keep up a pace faster than 15 kilometres per hour.

The sky was beginning to bruise as we pulled in to a small peninsula which protruded out into the lake. Here in the Siboloi national park is a small collection of buildings populated by countless skeletons and fossils, which has served for decades as an anthropologist’s frontier camp, and is the base for Dr Richard Leakey’s project which discovered the ‘Turkana Boy’, a 1.6 million year old Homo Erectus skeleton on the shores of Lake Turkana. We are finding that you really have to do something wild to impress anyone in Africa, and sure enough the greeting we received from the American anthropologist who resided here was as casual as though we had just strolled in from walking the dog. “Nice day?” he enquired, as we emerged shell-shocked from our traumatised vehicles. We stared as he lit his pipe, and discoursed about his life here. He resides in one of the most impressive and amazing places on earth, in my book.

Lake Turkana at sunset

The dying sun catches the ripples on Lake Turkana (Photo: RWH)

The sun was low slung, and scattered its rays in a thousand beads of colour as we ran down to the shores for a swim. The water was cool, and distinctively alkaline – almost soapy, and the sun caught the ripples and the top of the thunder caps that were throwing bolts of lightning across the eastern sky. We cooked outside, agoraphobic and mesmerised by this endless hypnotic space, and  wondered what was to come.

The Road Ahead… (The Lake Turkana Road Part I)

Back at home when we were planning this trip, I would occasionally be asked which parts I was most worried about. I would reply Sudan or Northern Kenya, Somaliland having been a late spontaneous diversion. My worries were mainly based on a lack of knowledge about what things were like on the ground in these places, and the true risks of driving through them. The reason we didn’t know much about them is because there just aren’t that many people visiting these places and writing about them. As it turns out Sudan was one of the best experiences of the trip, safe and friendly, and Somaliland one of the most exhilarating (although with enough anti British sentiment to justify my concerns!). The third and final ‘scare’ was to come in Kenya…

The crossing into Kenya from Ethiopia is renowned for being remote, difficult, and dangerous. The traditional route from Addis Ababa to Nairobi runs through hundreds of kilometres of Ethiopian lowland before the lush fields give way to desert mountains. Here, in the forgotten north of Kenya lies a barren wasteland populated only by nomads, bandits, and the occasional traveller. This is the section that has really had me worrying; over a thousand kilometres, with multiple reports of robbery and murder, with two Brits and two French overlanders having been shot here in 2009. We also had in the back of our minds the knowledge that we have an old car, and over such a distance a major problem could develop which we might not be able to solve. Staying in one place to fix the car in this sort of territory didn’t sound like something we wanted to do. Unfortunately this part of the trip was entirely compulsory: there was no alternative if we wanted to continue driving south.

Planning the road ahead (Photo: RWH)

Planning the road ahead (Photo: RWH)

There were two options. First, the road through Moyale, which is the ‘official’ crossing and regarded as a risky and uninspiring route with apparently endless corrugations. These are infernal waves that arise on unsealed roads that make you feel as though your very teeth will be shaken out. If hit at their fundamental frequency (which happens all too often), the car will protest loudly, refuse you the privilege of steering, and ultimately shake its self to bits. Until recently, tagging on to an army convoy was compulsory along this route.

Second is the Lake Turkana road, which runs through the tribal lands of the famous Omo valley and down the east coast of this great lake, through the beautiful Siboloi national park and past Dr Richard Leakey’s Homo Erectus footprints. Think The Constant Gardner. Sounds far more appealing, except in reality it is more of a vague track comprised of deep sand, sharp igneous rock, and multiple river crossings which can easily rise to leave you stranded half way down if the rains hit. Fortunately we had a full 5 days before the storms were meant to arrive… There are also reports of a significant Al Qadea presence on the opposite side of the (admittedly huge) lake. This road is much less travelled, and as such it would involve a bit of a leap of faith.

As budding anthropologists and connoisseurs of human folly, we decided to opt for the latter option. Naivety played its part as we assumed that a single day of rest after our whirlwind Somaliland tour would refresh us for the coming passage. We set off after sad fare-thee-wells to our dear friend Bob*, the British cyclist we had met in the Sudan, and Colin, a French reggae saxophonist whose appearance is not unlike John Lennon, and whose hospitality we can confirm to be excellent.

The mountains retreated as we wound our way south, as did the tarmac. Good roads lasted as far as Arba Minch, a picturesque market town happily situated overlooking lakes Abaya and Chamo, and home to a significant American Airforce base. Here we forgot our worries for a few hours as we supped cold beers (the gloriously named St George) and watched the monkeys pull the outside of the Landie apart.

Contented monkey/accomplished breakfast thief (Photo: RWH)

Contented monkey/accomplished breakfast thief (Photo: RWH)

A chance meeting in Addis had put us in touch with an Australian surgeon, who had lived and worked in Ethiopia for over thirty years. We postponed our onward journey and spent an enjoyable morning accompanying him on his daily ward round, which seemed in the main to consist of abdominal examination with his walking stick, and cajoling male nurses by way of headlocks and Dutch rubs. It made me think what it would be like to spend a whole career in an isolated African hospital. Lonely, would be my first thought, quickly followed by isolating. Infrastructure just doesn’t allow easy access to the outside world here, although the internet and mobile phones are helping. As friendly and all consuming life here would be, cultural differences are so vast that it would surely be many years before one felt truly at home here. It takes a certain type of person to manage that, and looking at this man laughing and jostling with the patients, I felt a sudden rush of respect. I wondered if I could ever be that person.

We were five days drive down the Omo valley, and approaching the border town of Omorate when I jumped down from the Landie to get some phone credit from the village store. This haphazard assembly of wood and sacking toted the village’s only light bulb, which swung cheerfully from its bare wires, sparking occasionally, as if to remind the observer of the exotic nature of its power source. I retrieved the credit from through the metal grating (a security device preventing you from swiping the three Coke bottles or twelve bars of soap that populated the store’s sorry shelves) and turned back, only to find my way blocked. Under that grubby light I could just make out traditional tartan and a kaleidoscope of beads tumbling over bare breasts. My gaze shifted upwards to note the drooping ear lobes and prominent lip ring of a Morsi tribeswoman.  She swept past me, producing her HTC smartphone from the depths of her garb and brandishing it at the shop attendant who picked up another card just like the one I held in my white, western hand, and pushed it through the grate. I returned to the car, feeling all at once like I was a very long way from home, clutching my ten year old Nokia and thinking it odd to hold such a 21st century errand in common with such a lady.

We were invited to spend an evening with a family from the Hamer tribe, who are famed for their traditional lifestyle and muddy dreadlocks. Luckily the son of our hosts was able to guide us to the village; we picked our way through kilometres of bush, avoiding mud holes and camel thorn. Motor vehicles just aren’t a feature here, so we had to make up our own way to the village. We were warmly welcomed into the settlement, a rough collection of traditional huts ring-fenced by viciously barbed wooden fences (everything in Africa has spikes). Our first glimpse of host family was of a dozen naked children of varying sizes playing amongst the goats, and the two wives of the head of the family sitting either side of the threshold, one nursing, one threading beads. We spent a memorable evening cooking and working out ways to communicate.

Omo Valley and Lake Turkana (2)

Hamar wife nursing the latest arrival into the family (Photo: RWH)

Our conversations drifted lazily. We discussed the health giving properties of drinking cow blood (particularly good mixed with milk, apparently), and the recent losses and gains of each tribe. The merits of each breed of goat were explained, as were the turns of fortune that were heralded in the stars. Our chatter continued, until the head of the family, a wizened, wispy man asked us what we thought of the men who could kill from the sky. We approached the subject from as many different directions as we could, given the limited vocabulary of our translator, before we realised he was talking about the drones that frequently flew nearby from the Arba Minch base to Somalia. It struck us how strange a worry this was for the chap to have, given how many other more apparent troubles he had to worry about; the state of the crops, the arrival of the rains, or the threat of neighbouring tribes. We imagined him sitting at the door of his mud hut at night, watching the lights of the drones overhead, and wondered at how else the outside world affects even this apparently isolated tribe. We tried as best we could to explain the intentions of these men from across the sea who possessed this secret of flight. His blind, amber eyes fixed on us in turn as we spoke, but here under the African sky the motives and justifications seemed peculiar and distant, and we struggled to convey the ethos of the Americans to this man, a true elder.

Dario indulging curiosity (Photo: RWH)

Dario indulging curiosity (Photo: RWH)

We awoke with the sun, as it rent apart the sky in spectacular crimson. The boys were already gone with the goats to the watering hole. The wives were digging the vegetables. It was time to turn south, towards Kenya, and trouble.

*It is only in the last few days that we have heard from Bob. Given that he left Addis on the 3rd March, we were getting pretty worried. All we know is that he has made it safely through to Nairobi. You will soon be able to read about his experience here.

The Adventures of Salami Man (Part 2)


The sun was almost extinct as we climbed the steps in front of Berbera police station to find an old man in a wicker chair. Two armed men in dusty berets flanked the Police Chief but he himself displayed no military attire. He wore only a swathe of burgundy fabric, richly embroidered and firmly swept around his bent body. His face was scarred and wreathed by steam from the teacup he rested carefully on a saucer. The steam rose beneath his tiny dark eyes and he inhaled as he looked out over the pinkish town. From behind his teacup the Police Chief listened to Captain Paunch then spoke some quiet instructions. A man in a collared shirt appeared and translated for our benefit. We were to come back in the morning. The Police Chief would not see us now.


Soldiers conducted us to a smart hotel, made reservations for us then left. We were told in no uncertain terms by the manager that, should we leave the grounds, the Police would be contacted immediately. As we sipped coffee and contemplated our house arrest Colin came hurrying with news “The owner wants to see us!” From Colin’s tone we could see the coffee would wait and we followed. At a table on the grass outside the hotel restaurant was seated a smartly dressed Somali man. He smiled broadly and addressed us in perfect English, “”My name is Mohammed Kadar and I am the owner. Firstly, I am aware of your situation. Please know that you may stay here, free of charge, and I would like to invite you to dine with me as my guests.”


We sat and cautiously ordered meals, while Mohammed Kadar spoke “I am a hotelier and property entrepreneur. Over the years I have seen very few tourists in Somaliland and I would like to extend to you our tradition for warm hospitality. I hope that you will return to your countries with positive experiences and that this will hopefully support the growth of a tourist industry in Somaliland.” He then added that perhaps the national news would be interested in meeting us. We were a little uncomfortable with the idea of being used in the media as symbols of social change. As we saw it, this made us potential targets for any group focused on sabotaging that social change. We mumbled a few non-committal responses, “maybe tomorrow or something”.


Barely had we forked a morsel of our fresh fish suppers when we found ourselves staring down the barrel of a camera lens. Considering our being a little stunned by this swift development the group coped well, myself excluded. When my turn came to be interviewed the camera panned to my face. Wide-eyed and sweating I began, “I am delighted to have the opportunity to visit Salami man…I mean Somaliland”. Shit! I froze, mute. My eyes darted to Bas. He was staring back at me. As the silence dragged, he mouthed noiselessly “what are you doing?!!”. My eyes snapped to Rich who had lost interest and returned to his fish. On realizing that this was what most people watching this news segment would be doing, my panic eased and I was able to burble some sentences about how safe it all was here. The little red camera light blessedly went off.


The news crew left us. Mohammed Kadar passed his gaze across our faces and spoke, “I am glad you feel that you are safe here. For so many years the international community has been saying that we are not safe. The UK foreign office forbids visiting under any circumstances. I think that many Somalilanders are beginning to doubt themselves. They say to one another “are we safe, if the world says we are not maybe we are not”. On this thought we retired to bed.


At 7am our escort took us to meet with the Police Chief a second time. In the police headquarters we sat before a broad mahogany desk with our hands in our laps like naughty school children. The anxiety around the table was palpable, we had no idea how serious our illegally exploring Somaliland would turn out to be. Behind the desk the Police Chief was unrecognizable from the day before. Yesterday’s thin frame was lost in an imposing construction of decorated epaulets, brassy buttons and pomp.


The Chief surveyed us, deciding whom he would address. He then barked in Somali “Who is your Chief”. One of the soldiers lining the walls shot a finger at the back of my head dragging the Chief’s eyes to meet mine. It seemed this faded military dinosaur could only operate in a system of clear hierarchy. If previous experience in Africa is anything to go by, rank is assigned in order of beard size and as such I had been designated leader. I was invited to tell our story, which I dutifully did and hoped I was faithfully translated. After a few moments the Chief spoke from beneath wilting grey brows, “You will be taken back to Hargeisa.  We will send a soldier with you. First you must go to the Mayor of Berbera, you will go there now!”


We ambled across a hot concrete courtyard to the next stratum of power. We were not in the least bit reassured that our small legal violation seemed to warrant such a high level of appraisal. As we congregated around a similar broad mahogany desk a younger man in a suit greeted us in English, “I have heard about your situation and you will understand that you must go to Hargeisa to see the Minister for Interior”. This engagement had not been made clear to us but we nodded meekly. The Mayor spoke to us, with a detached but reproving air, about the seriousness of this episode and the possible implications of our behaviour. We exchanged frightened glances. Why did we need to see the Interior Minister? Yesterday this was a small bureaucratic faux pas; today it seemed that we were on the cusp of an international incident.With every moment that passed we felt ourselves sinking deeper into a mire of strange politics we did not understand. The Mayor concluded his diatribe with “…of course before you go you will have to visit the Port of Berbera”. This parting shot was a little confusing but we nodded along and allowed ourselves to be lead out.


Next we were driven to a small port outside Berbera. We were met by a man who lead us among the aging wooden ships and shiny steel liners with the manner of an excited tour guide. “This port was recently refurbished in 2009, it receives 5-10 ships a week importing all manner of things including, electrical goods, food, motor parts, fuel etc. Exports include mainly camel!” As he said this he gestured to an enormous Greek passenger ferry. We peered through the stern and saw that the cavernous hull had been partitioned into thousands of small stables, each filled with hay. It looked as one might expect the Ark to look had the great flood struck during the Greek economic crisis.


As our guide proudly discussed his port we came across a surprising realization. The politicians seemed to be attempting to give us a guided tour of Somaliland’s top attractions while keeping us under close arrest. This industrial port seemed to be the Mayor of Berbera’s idea of a holiday highlight. We dubbed this surreal sightseeing as the “Golden Handcuff tour”.


The Harbour Master, who also spared some time to meet us, insisted that on our way back towards Hargeisa we stop at Somaliland’s main historic site, Laas Gees. On our departure he said to me “give them this and tell them I sent you”. He passed me a hand written note. With our chit in hand and a soldier in the passenger seat we set off back towards Hargeisa.


At the entrance to Laas Gees we were astonished to find that our scrap of paper did not cause the gates to fly open with a trumpet blast and drum roll. There was still baksheesh to be payed. After arguing bitterly for his bribe the sentry jumped happily into our Landie for a lift up to the cliffs. Eight people in the Landie was made possible by the park guard’s sitting in the front passenger seat on our bodyguard’s lap. Watching them manoeuvre themselves awkwardly into position with their AK47s still strapped across their shoulders was quite a pretty picture.


The anthropological site of Laas Gees is found among a series of caves and bluffs jutting out from the flat desert west of Berbera. On the walls of the caves are preserved 10,000-year-old images of troglodyte life in a warm palette of ochre, red and brown. From the caves one can cast out over the plain where snakeskin riverbeds lie like ghosts of the cirrus threads that streak the sky.  As the sun begins to burn all the yellows of this ageless landscape into the rich reds of the cave paintings it provokes an old contentment, a feeling of fraternity with our distant forebears.


Next day in Hargeisa we were collected from our hotel by two men from the, quite Orwellian, Ministry of Information. They lead us to a large government building where a crowd of people was waiting for us. From the depths of the mob a news crew materialized to interview us. We were reeling from our new found celebrity in the capital as we followed our friends from the Ministry of Truth inside the government building. Through several narrow corridors we found a doorway swamped by a mass of bodies. A thoroughfare was made for us and we pushed through it.  As we entered we were instantly petrified before a riot of flashbulbs and lenses. Piecemeal we gathered our wits and realised that the lenses were pointed to our right where a man in white robe stood. One of our guides pointed to the man and said, “Prime Minister”. Strangely we were all, I think, a little disappointed that the fanfare was not for us. It is extraordinary how quickly fame goes to one’s head.

Screen shot 2013-04-08 at 14.22.15

When the crowd in the room had thinned we were seated around a conference table towards the back of the room and the Minister of Tourism came to sit with us. We exchanged the pleasantries that by now we were very accustomed to. The men from the Ministry for Distribution of Opinion filmed our discussion and prompted us with things we ought to say.


What followed was a series of similar conversations with each of a string of dignitaries:

Head of the Army

Head of the Navy

Mayor of Hargeisa

Chief of Immigration

Minister For Tourism

Minister for Information

Leader of the Opposition

Attaché for the People’s Republic of Administration and Liaison Officer


We were hungry and little tired of the circus when the white robe of the ringleader swept back into the room. The Prime Minister sat at our table quietly and waited while the cameraman prepared. We also sat silent, star struck. He disposed of the pleasantries quickly and spoke to us with calm conviction of the severe implications for his country of their “unrecognized” status. He described fervently how his endeavours to bring Somaliland forward have been obstructed by this ruling and of the effects these limitations have had on the people of Somaliland. Despite his frustrations his outlook was positive. He was confident of his ability to build a future and his self-belief was infectious. When the Prime Minister left we were moved by his words and more than a little inspired by his ambition.


The following day we explored the streets of Hargeisa, tasting the foods and enjoying the bustle of business in the market. As we walked countless people stopped us in the street. “Hey you are the tourists!”, people would shout from cars “I have seen you on the TV”, “Welcome to Somaliland”. We were unable even to hide in a crowd watching football, we were sniffed out by yet another news crew for interviews. Our fame in the capital was growing it seemed.


After dinner that evening we were picking our way home through the sandy backstreets of Hargeisa when from the shadows a man appeared. He was wearing torn clothes and his face bore the badges of a brawler. “You are the tourists aren’t you,” he said. “I have seen you in your red Land Rover. You are staying at the Jasmine hotel aren’t you?”. We did are best to appease this friendly, if frightening, character and continued home. At the point at which one’s identity and movements are well known by a city’s disreputables it is perhaps time to leave. We returned to Ethiopia the next day.


Although we were a bit arrested and spent the greater part of our trip quite frightened we could not help but depart with a fondness for Somaliland and indeed a strong empathy for their cause. They seem to have done all the right things to earn their independence from Somalia and it must be said that their young and well-educated political class inspires confidence. Perhaps in a few years the international community will change their view and we shall all be passing our summer holidays on the beaches of the Costa del Somalia.

The Adventures of Salami Man (Part 1)

Ethiopia, the homeland of Haile Selassi, is the heartland of Rastafarianism. As such Addis Ababa it is still firmly in the thrall of the Reggae that Selassi brought back from his exile in Jamaica. Before Reggae however the music heritage lay in Jazz and Swing. In the first decades of the 20th century Addis moved to the sound of Abyssinian Swing. Unfortunately the music lost popularity and in the 1940s and all of the recorded Abyssinian Swing music was lost in a fire. On the walls of many bars in Addis there remains evidence in grainy monochrome of Africans bopping in slim suits and sharp white shoes. However, sadly no record remains of what it sounded like.

Deep in the backstreets of Addis we walked into one such bar with Colin, a musician from Normandy and our host. Stepping through a heavy wooden door and into the smoky gloom, music struck us like a slap in the face. The attention of the room was gripped and only at natural pauses were ripples of applause allowed to flow from the spellbound crowd. This was not the tinny rendition of ‘the girl from Ipanema’ one might hear whilst waiting to speak to the bank. Our fatigue was grudgingly drawn from us and consumed by the energy of the brass lines. The two saxophonists vied for center stage, relishing the competition for our gaze. Wrapped in this veil of stirring rhythms and strong beer we settled the final plan for an adventure. We would deviate from our path south and away from the road more traveled. We would explore Somalia and visit the sea.


Somaliland fought for its independence from Somalia proper in 1991 and has been operating as a separate country since. It is presently trying to distance itself from its chaotic and politically unstable neighbour to the south. However, the only country in the world that recognises Somaliland as a sovereign state is Ethiopia, probably due to a friendly interest in their new port on the Gulf of Aden. Addis is therefore the only place one can find a Somaliland embassy, which would be our destination the following morning.

The embassy consisted of a steel gate in a residential street with only a hand-painted flag exposing its identity. We knocked and a smiling man in a faded purple T-shirt invited us in. No metal detector and no x-ray, not even a frisk. In an office containing two administrative women, identically overweight and identically dowdy, we handed over dollars, forms and a wad of passport photos. We were rewarded with grim facial expressions transposed directly from a human resources office somewhere in Croydon. The administrative staff were surly but efficient and we had all the visas and car permits necessary by the afternoon.

As we approached the border with Somalia the landscape changed. Rocks and sand replaced soil. Leafy shrubs were traded for knots of wiry bush, each bristling with a thousand three-inch spines. Despite its apparent cruelty we felt at home back in the desert. The desert is simple and minimal; it consists of only land and sky. There are no hoards of curious locals pawing at everything, no one to gather into a suffocating audience any time we attempted to drink a cup of tea. There are no whining mosquitoes or giant war-machine wasps. There are barely any fauna apart from the camels grazing lazily. One can lay serenely under the stars, safe in the knowledge that not even rain will interrupt the stillness.

Beautiful Desert

The border was uncomplicated and we were soon in the capital city of Hargeisa. The differences between Ethiopia and Somaliland were marked. The first thing we noticed was the change from Christianity to Islam. All the scantily clad girls of Ethiopia were gone and in their stead were elegant burkahs in cheerful colours bobbing lightly along the streets like Pac-man’s ghosts. We approached a moneychanger sitting among many of his kind in a street market. He lounged like a prince on a bed of old sacking. Before him was a block of his wares arranged neatly in size order. Each brick of money was tied with elastic and placed carefully in the wall of this currency cube. We exchanged 20 US dollars with his lazy highness and received a wad of notes big enough to chock the wheels of the Landie. As we walked away we saw another moneychanger struggling down the road. Among the donkeys and the potholes he sweated and adroitly picked a path for his laden wheelbarrow, piled head-high with money.


Hargeisa is small but packed to bursting with minivans and Toyota land cruisers, resulting in permanent gridlock. The bright burkahs are complemented by the jolly shop fronts. All are painted with large, crude impressions of the products found therein. Khat stands line the streets and they are no exception to this rule. They are painted with bunches of green leafy stalks and usually an accompanying image of a lion or lightning bolt to assure the buyer of the potency of the product.


Even before we arrived in Hargeisa the influence of Khat was noticeable. We had to wrestle for our place on the road with Khat lorries racing to deliver their shipment. Khat is a leafy plant that is farmed all year round to supply the widespread and growing demand as a recreational drug. The leaves of the plant are chewed over a few hours to achieve first a stimulant effect and in higher doses a somnolent effect. The active ingredient in Khat degrades and becomes less potent quite quickly after it is harvested, which explains the terrifying urgency of the delivery lorries.

We settled into a hotel in Hargeisa and went out to dinner with a pair of Somalilanders. The food in Somaliland is confidently spiced and you can taste a strong Indian influence. Berbera on the north coast was a trade stop on the tea run from India during the early 20th century. Supper was an enlightening experience. Somalilanders describe themselves as a chatty people and true enough we sat quietly while our friendly hosts spoke fluently on the history, culture and current politics of Somaliland.

In 1888 Somalia was divided, Djibouti went to the French, the western horn and Mogadishu went to the Italians and Somaliland became the “British Protectorate of Somaliland”. It became independent from British rule in 1960 and unified with Puntland in the west and Somalia in the South under the rule of Siad Barre. Barre instigated a Marxist regime supported by the USSR, which soon became oppressive. Somalilanders became disillusioned with the idea of a unified Somalia under Barre and fought for there independence, achieving it in 1991. Since then they have gone from strength to strength. Today they have a democratic government, competent civil service, their own currency and strong borders. Excluding two suicide attacks by fundamentalists from Mogadishu, attempting to destabilise them, Somaliland has been safe for 20 years.

The International community refuses to recognise Somaliland as a separate country from Somalia. This is due chiefly to fears of “balkanisation” of the region and particularly violent reprisals by the warlords in Mogadishu. All the Somalilanders we spoke to had a strong opinion on this topic and it is presently a hot political issue. Somalilanders have a nostalgic love for Britain and the times of Empire. They feel, quite reasonably, that they have done all they can to foster a stable new democracy in the wake of British rule and that it deserves recognition as such. We could not help but empathise with the Somalilanders. The refusal to support their case has made Somalilanders feel, at best let down by the British government, and at worst betrayed.

The next day we set off to find the beach. The first military checkpoint was about five miles outside Hargeisa and we were fully expecting to be turned back to register as aliens and pick up a military escort. We did our best to appear legitimate. With our grinning checkpoint faces fixed we pointed at the paperwork we had and repeated, this is good, okay, okay. Eventually the soldier got tired of trying to explain why we had to go back and opened the barrier. Excellent news. We were free to explore Somaliland. Five miles down the road our celebrations came to an abrupt stop as we came in sight of another checkpoint. Four hours and eight anxious checkpoints later, we arrived in Berbera.

Berbera is a small coastal town housing Somaliland’s newest and only port. We found a dusty track to the beach and were confronted with a shock of turquoise water. A vista of steep green mountains loomimg over porcelain sand stretched as far east as we could see and further into Puntland. Reunited with the sea after so long, we were too excited for words. We leapt out of our clothes and ran headlong into the surf. The bright water renewed us. The dust and sweat of the desert were washed away. Every mile driven and every nerve-jangling checkpoint was worthwhile. We shared the endless gold haven with a group of five or six Somalilanders. The men were gleefully tearing in and out of the rollers in their bunched up briefs and sopping outsized T-shirts. Layered head to toe in diaphanous fabrics, the women smiled from the shore.


Washed and worn by the waves we eventually piled back into the car to find a deserted stretch of coastline on which to spend the night. We passed and repassed white colonial buildings along the sea front, dirtied by time but latterly spruced up with bright hand-painted signs depicting the wares if the fruit sellers now residing within. We found ourselves at the tiny airport west of Berbera still looking for the coastal road. I exited the Landie to ask directions.

Despite my walking 50 yards from the car in plain sight, the airport security guard was a little startled by my arrival in front of him. I had, it seemed, interrupted his vacant gazing out to the desert. As he pondered my question, a soldier raised the barrier behind him. Underneath slipped a sleek white saloon car with dark windows and beige furry mat visible on the dash. It stopped and a man stepped out in uniform. He had glinting medals on his breast, mirrored sunglasses and a proud paunch resting on his belt buckle. The officer stepped towards me and waited to be informed of what was going on. The soldier operating the barrier approached.

“Where you go?” said the soldier.

I decided against exposing our plans for illegal camping and said we were on our way from Hargeisa to Berbera and had become lost. I flapped our most official looking documents around while I spoke. The officer barked in Somali, the soldier translated, “where are you soldier, you need soldier!” It was looking like we were busted. It was time to abort this conversation before we found ourselves arrested. Delivering some excuses about being late for Wheel of Fortune and having left the iron on, I made to leave. As I turned, a third man in desert fatigues barred my way.  His hand rested on the stock of his AK47 with an unsettling degree of familiarity.  He explained that we had been found moving illegally in Somaliland and that we were to accompany them back to Berbera. I was ushered into the saloon and a soldier climbed into my seat in the Landie. Bas and Rich who were out of earshot of my conversation looked at me through the windscreen for an explanation. I offered nothing.

As we sped towards Berbera I frantically evaluated the situation. We were in trouble. It couldn’t be big trouble, surely. We have just broken a small bureaucratic rule. In Berbera there would be a small bribe, more stamps and forms and we should be on our way. Somalia is a bit of an unknown quantity though, maybe we were trespassing, maybe we were suspicious! I didn’t want to spend even one night in a Somali prison, thank you. All of a sudden those words I had disregarded on the FCO website came back to me with a shiver “there are is no embassy presence in Somaliland at this time”. I am definitely over reacting, it is time to remain calm and make some friends. I offered the man behind the mirrors a Marlboro Red. He took one without expression and began to smoke leaving the windows firmly shut. I chanced a little pigeon English conversation. I am from UK… Britain?… England? It is very hot today, it is very cold in England. I barked an anxious laugh, too loudly for the still air in the car. He remained silent and smoked. Perhaps he doesn’t speak English. I smoked as well.