Footloose Scot (17 page)

At the Iranian border there was a line of vehicles waiting for Customs inspection. We pulled in behind a sports car with an open top. The driver was black haired, perhaps Iranian, and his passenger a striking blonde .We went off to have our passports checked, and then got talking to a couple of young Americans hitch-hiking in the other direction. When we got back to our car, the vehicles ahead had pulled forward.

The sports car had been driven off to one side and was now over an inspection pit. We could see a man underneath the vehicle pushing a rod into the chassis. The blonde woman stood off to one side, bent half over, tears streaming down her face; the dark-haired man was gesturing animatedly to an Iranian official. Someone said drugs had been found, and the minimum sentence was jail time. We drove past and also underwent a thorough inspection for 40 minutes, but Bedford had nothing illegal to reveal.

It was now evening. Tired by the wait and the nervousness of the place, we stopped at the first hotel after the border in the town of Taybad. We asked the room clerk if we could park in the hotel garden, and pay a fee for sleeping in the van. Anxious to please, he said yes and gave us a low price. We then asked about getting something to eat. "Very sorry, sir and madam, but our dining room is closed. But I have small eaties for you".

His synonym for a snack turned out to be lamb slices in pita bread with a nice salad. On the strength of having passed through Customs and now being on the good Iranian road network, we drank some beers and turned in knowing we had a safe campsite.

Back again in Turkey, the reception was less pleasant. Turkey had just invaded Cyprus, and the USA and Britain had both been strongly critical in the UN. Our vehicle plates and GB sticker identified us pretty clearly, and we got hostile looks and gestures when we stopped for gas. We drove straight across Turkey, about 900 miles, and were pleased to reach Greece and a smiling welcome from an immigration officer. We spent two days recovering from the long drive at a small beach resort on the Aegean Sea, before resuming our drive northwards.

We drove north along the autoput, the pre-war highway which runs up the center of Yugoslavia. In Ljubljana, shortly before the Austrian border, we were cruising around town looking for a spot to park and were overtaken by an open sports car, with an attractive young woman in the passenger seat. Noticing our dusty camper van and the British plates, she leaned over her seat and with a finger wrote in the dust on the trunk "Follow us."

"Want to follow them?" Christine asked me. I shook my head. Too many times on the trip we met friendly local people, and it always ended up with us telling our story, and seldom with us finding out much about the local folk. At this point in the trip we were tired and looking forward to some comforts: a campsite in an Austrian meadow, beer to drink and sausages to eat. So, we gave the sports car a wave, motored on and missed.. .who knows what?

Three days later we drove on to a Channel ferry, and two hours later disembarked at Dover. Our passports and Bedford's dusty appearance told the immigration officer, a thin-faced young man, that we had been on the road a long time. As we drove off I noticed him hurrying from his booth. Five minutes later we knew why; he had been telling UK Customs to give us a special search. Unfortunately the special search turned up two Kashmir carpets which we had not declared. An older customs inspector with a Scottish accent shook his head sadly at my poor attempt to conceal the rugs. He then told us the rugs were being confiscated and we could come back at a later date, pay the duty and a fine if we wanted to claim them. On this anti-climactic note, which was the outcome of my stupid desire to be a smuggler, we reentered the U.K. and got used again to driving on the left hand side of the road. To her credit Christine, ever the tolerant travel companion, did not say anything about the incident as we drove towards Oxford, with 18,886 miles on the clock.

In 1977 I sold my business in England. This was a pizza restaurant and wine bar in the center of Oxford. It was in the right place at the right time, and soon made good profits. But I was ready for another adventure.

It started with a small ad I saw in an English newspaper. Entitled "Hobo Trans Africa", it described a five month trip through Africa by truck, starting in London and ending in Johannesburg, South Africa. Accommodation was tent camping. Sixteen African countries were included, as well as France and Spain.

I called the number and received a fourteen page mimeographed itinerary, which included something on the philosophy of the tour organizers. The Introduction started with a lofty statement: "It is perhaps fortunate for the stability of our society that only a few of us should feel an urge to seek out unfamiliar territory and adventure in the pursuit of personal satisfaction. For these few however the vast unspoiled regions of Africa still offer an unparalleled chance to combine an interest in meeting new ways of life with the challenge of overcoming day to day difficulties".

The trip organizers were Jo, a solicitor by profession, and her significant other, Nick, an agricultural contractor. His job was driving and maintaining the ex-German Army twelve gear Mercedes truck which was our transportation. Jo dealt with the paperwork and the tour participants. They did this as a hobby since they both loved Africa and could also make some money on the side.

The organizers were looking for group members, the sheet continued "People who were prepared to do their fair share of chores and generally muck in." Group members would need all their tolerance and clear sightedness of relationships with others in the group, it continued. A sense of humor would be vital as well as a sense of perspective if trivial upsets were not to assume towering proportion. The total cost of this trip, for transportation, tent camping and food, was 625 pounds or 5 five pounds a day, which was cheaper than staying at home. I liked the philosophy, the title and the price, so I signed up.

On a cold January morning in 1977 I arrived outside an Underground station in South London and met my 28 fellow travelers and the organizers. The Mercedes truck was a huge yellow monster with wheels three feet in diameter. We sat on two benches in the back of the truck facing each other. We had been warned to wear warm clothing, since the roof and sides of the truck bed were canvas. Everyone was therefore wearing parkas and sweaters, and the space was so cramped we had to sit turned half sideways to fit, like sardines in a can. Being British we didn't say much but eyed each other cautiously, our companions at close quarters for the next five months.

We crossed the English Channel by ferry to Calais and drove south straight through France to the Spanish border. We kept going for as long as it was light, stopping in the evening at campsites where the first priority was scavenging for wood so we could cook our supper. We slept in tents and for some reason I was given a tent to myself, which was fine by me - more space, more privacy. By the time we got to southern Spain, the weather was warmer and we shed some of our winter clothing. Oranges were ripening on the trees of our campground and we soon picked the ripe ones.

By now we were getting used to each other, and certain distinctions were apparent within the group. Everyone was under 28, except for a 62-year old Scotsman and myself (age 40). There were three couples, two of them Australian and one English (the husband was a doctor), all of whom were going on to Australia after they reached Johannesburg. The rest of the group were singles, all British, two thirds of them male, all taking time off from a job, or between jobs, and attracted to the adventure and the low price of this trip.

One girl, a farmer's daughter from the West of England, appeared a little frail for what I reckoned would by a physically challenging and psychologically testing trip.

Long days of uncomfortable driving, camp food and sleeping in tents in all sorts of weather, were likely to test everyone's spirit. Uncertainties at border crossings, possible harassment by local police and other political matters might test our patience. Then there were the relationships within the group. Two street-smart brothers from Birmingham's inner city gave the impression they were taking a six month break because of problems with the police. Still, in the first few weeks, English restraint and tolerance prevailed and there were no personality clashes.

We took a car ferry from Valencia to Algeria, a depressed and unsettled place in those post independence days. We camped outside of Algiers close to an untended British war cemetery, which was unusual since usually these military gravesites are immaculately maintained. It was raining and cold. We stopped at one village to buy supplies. In the local store a middle-aged Arab was buying some provisions, and we got into conversation. I asked him about the war recently ended; he told us in a matter of fact way he had killed 28 French soldiers during the eight year war and did not regret it. The almost off­hand statement of the huge death toll was worrisome but there was no chance to pursue the matter since we were in a hurry.

From Algeria we drove into Libya, noting the anti-American and anti-British slogans on billboards at the frontier. The US had had a large air force base here, and previously the British had occupied the country after the Italians were defeated in the Second World War. Now Libya was in the early days of Ghaddafy's rule (Ghaddafy seized power in 1969) and his Green Book philosophy was visible on signs along the road. So far, the green revolution did not seem to have had much effect. Groups of lots of poorly dressed men hung at street corners, plainly without jobs. Our huge yellow-colored truck with passengers hanging out from the sides didn't even attract much attention, a sure sign of apathy.

Our main interest there was the ruins at Leptis Magna, the largest Roman colony in North Africa, 70 miles east of Tripoli. This 2,000-year old settlement had once been home to 100,000 people. Founded around 1,100 BC as a port by Phoenicians, and later a dominion of Carthage, it attained its present status under the Romans. Apart from the size, the most striking thing was the number, size and good state of the ruins, preserved for centuries under the sand and little visited by tourists.

Its highlights include the triumphal arch commemorating the victories of the Roman Emperor Severus who was born there, the Old and New Forums, Baths, Theatre and Amphitheatre, and Coliseum all of which are in sight of the Mediterranean's breaking waves. Some were hardly ruins at all, standing high and revealing all their architectural detail work. The Coliseum is three stories high and Corinthian columns at the amphitheatre rise 30 feet. We had the place to ourselves, Gaddafi's revolution having scared off tourists. We clambered over plinths and porticos, posed with headless statues and in front of a Gorgon's head (the terrifying mythic female with hair of living, venomous snakes) and squeezed through lions' chutes in the Coliseum. There were no guards.

Then we headed south into the Sahara with a view to crossing back into Algeria further south. The sun got hotter, and the coastal vegetation and political banners gave way to arid sandy wastes with few places to stop for fuel or anything else. One day we came across a Canadian oil exploration company drilling in the desert. The oilfield guys, both roustabouts and administrative personnel, were starved of female company and English speakers. We were welcomed into their huge, air conditioned mess tent, and fed a good meal, including salads. They ogled the girls in our group wearing shorts and we all played ping pong. We put up our tents just beyond the compound's perimeter lights, having been assured a cooked breakfast in the morning.

At the Libyan border town of Ghat Al Birkah we passed back into Algeria. In the oasis town of Djanet, called Fort Charlet by the French Foreign Legion, we hired mules to take us up into the hills to see Neolithic cave paintings in the Tassil n'Ajjer mountains. More than 15,000 rock paintings of animals are scattered across this vast sandstone plateau which was being turned into a national park. Painted by the San Peoples before 1,200 BC the frescoes showed scenes of cattle and large wild animals including crocodiles from a time when the climate was very much wetter.

We detoured further into Algeria to visit the Hoggar Mountains where Father Charles de Foucald lived and died. Formerly an officer in the French Army he became a Trappist monk and moved in 1901 to the Sahara desert where he lived alone. Ministering to the Tuaregs and studying their culture and language, he produced a manuscript dictionary of four volumes. He was assassinated in 1916 by marauding tribesmen, and beatified in 2005 by Pope Benedict XVI.

I was deeply moved, standing on a mountain ridge outside the small chapel commemorating his life, with a brutal wind blowing and desolate flat landscape stretching to the horizon, to imagine the strength of willpower and belief which would sustain a man here for a lifetime. I was also very cold. The desert can be a cold place and we were not yet clear of winter.

Before heading south again, we came across another Mercedes truck like ours, but painted red. It was driven by a Dutch couple. We agreed to travel together until we got to Nigeria, so that in the event of a truck breaking down or getting bogged down in the sand, the other truck could tow. It made for reassurance for the occupants of both trucks, and provided some company.

We crossed into Niger, between Algeria and Nigeria, a Sahel or border country between desert of northern Africa and the greener terrain of central Africa. Here we faced the toughest road conditions on the way to Bilma. There are salt mines here, and camel trains carrying salt still left Bilma for distant places. This area is known as the Grand Erg of Bilma, and we often had to use firewood which we collected to put under the wheels to give traction. And we all pushed. On one particularly slow day, we became stuck eight times.

In the evening, we put up our tents around the truck, then lit a fire and took turns cooking. This was a time for quiet, and for star gazing before it got too cold. The immensity of the desert wilderness filled us with awe and silenced even the city toughs from Birmingham. Endless reaches of sand, stony plateau, sand again. The sheer emptiness of this silent world fascinated us who lived in over crowded Europe.

We were making good progress without any mechanical problems. Within the group we learned not to sit next to someone we disliked. The shimmering heat, the bumping of the vehicle and lack of proper toilets and washing were trying, but no one was freaking out. At frontier crossings there was relief since the size of the vehicle and the number in our group made us entertainment value. Our vehicle permits were in order and our visas were all current so it was simply a time for patience. At one place, we even played a soccer game against some local soldiers as we waited for our passports to be stamped.

At Agadez, right in the center of Niger, we found a campsite with showers. It was a measure of our condition by now that the primitive showers are greeted like a four-star hotel. We could now see in the physique and clothing of the local people the influence of Black Africa. Tuaregs are the dominant tribe here, once known as the Blue Men of the desert because of the blue dye of their robes which stained their skin.

In Ougadougou, capital of Upper Volta now called Burkino Fasso, previously a French colony like many of the countries in the region, we found a French bakery and grocery. It was always a thrill to be able to buy familiar food items, and we usually found them in a shop catering to expatriates and often run by Lebanese. Otherwise, our own cooked meals came from cans carried under the floor boards in the rear of the truck, and what fresh produce we could find in local markets.

SAHARA DESERT, ALGERIA

GORGON HEAD, LEPTIS MAGNA