Scotland to South Africa in a Landy

From the chill of Scotland to the Wind of Table Mountain
(and a lot of Africa inbetween)

By Simon and Jennifer Wicks

Journey South
From the chill of Scotland to the Sahara heat, it’s a culture shock on the road to Morocco.

It was cold but bright when we left Scotland, with a covering of snow on the hilltops but, reliable as ever our Landy, a 110 300Tdi Country Station Wagon nicknamed ‘Lara’, started up first time.

A quick visual inspection of the tyres, Goodyear Wrangler ATs, and checking of the roof-two sand plates, Hi Lift jack, three water cans and three water fuel, and it was time for an emotional goodbye to mum and dad. It looked excessive for the Scottish Roads, even in winter, but we were heading south- a long way south- to Africa, top to bottom and side to side. First Scotland, England, France and Spain, then leaving Europe to Morocco from there we would see which route was open, which borders were closed, and who would give us visas.

The journey through England ended at the Chunnel Terminus where we were loaded onto the train and a swift 35 minutes later deposited in France. We hurried south through the rain and cloud to sweep into Spain, only to catch snow in the mountains. Further south we drove arriving at the Straits of Gibraltar and the ferry terminal Almeira. All ferries cancelled due to bad weather and uneasy, winy night was spent sleeping in the Landy at the port.

Next day we got the news that the weather was still too rough but to try Algeciras down the coast where the larger ferries where still running. We trundled down to Algeciras and found a ferry that was due to leave in half an hour. A mad rush ensued as we bought a ticket, charged our way through the dock, joined the crazy queue through customs and finally squeezed onto the back of the ferry. On our way past the Isle of Gibraltar we paced the boat scanning for a glimpse of Africa.

Soon enough it arrived, Ceuta, still a Spanish enclave clinging onto the top of Africa in Morocco. We descended into the throng of ‘helpers’, hawkers and harassment and sought refuge in a fuel station- where we bought duty free diesel at a fraction of the price from back home.

Customs Problems
Our timing at Customs and Immigration could not have been worse, dusk during Ramadan. Everything closed while everyone went to eat, so we milled around, like all the others, outside in the dark as the officials ate by candlelight in their cabins. It was time to start adjusting to African time, plenty of patience in boring places.

Eventually, passports stamped, car insurance checked we rolled into the Moroccan night. Not a good start to any place, so we found a small hotel and collapsed for the night. Morocco has a lot to offer for a four wheel-drive tourist, mountains, desert, beaches and many rarely trod tracks. We decided to start with the mountains and meandered our way through the vast forecasts that surround the Atlas mountains, dodging the roadside dealers who sold chickens, goats, fossils, fruits, admiring the landscape around us of beautiful valleys and snow capped mountains with exquisite mosques and lively markets between.
Ruins of kasbahs frequently became our campsites as the spell of Morocco stole over us. For three weeks we forged forest trails and moulded mountain tracks and, although very persistent in demands of gifts, the people treated us with respect and we never felt threatened.

Descending out from the mountains we eased into the traffic of Marrakech where we used the Landy to full effect to ward off moped hustlers who attempt to guide you to a hotel where they collect a fee. A few nudges and a couple of one way streets later and we had lost them all in the maze of streets and found our way into Djemaa El-Fna square. Here we settled into a hotel overlooking the square to watch the ending of the Ramadan and the feast ourselves on fresh orange juice squeezed while you wait, kebabs cooked as you chatted and pastries, prepared especially for breakfast.

A Kaleidoscope
Marrakech is a whirl of colour, noise and activity, a kaleidoscope of Mosque and mopeds with scented souks and peaceful palaces, but as Ramadan ended we felt the need to get back on the road and head down further south into the mighty Sahara desert.

Every desert is unique and each amazing, the Sahara, being the world’s largest, is no exception. So, with due respect and plenty of food, fuel and water we carefully entered the dunes south of Erfoud to find a quiet spot for Christmas. Leaving the hustle of the cities and villages behind us we nudged through the dunes until we came to a small valley, with a few bushes among the dunes, and set up camp.

Christmas dawned bright and clear, we cooked chicken buried in the sand oven, roasted potatoes on the fire, pulled crackers and spent the afternoon playing Frisbee in the dunes. Polishing off a bottle of wine, we collapsed into bed as the sun set.

The next day was not so quite, it started with a camel invasion of our little camp. Camels can be incredibly noisy, smelly, not to mention ill tampered and stubborn.
No sooner had we rid ourselves of them, when over the dunes came a man pushing a bicycle. We offered water and he wanted to sell us fossils- which he conveniently had in his pocket while pushing his bike through the Sahara desert.

We weren’t interested in buying but he was still interested in getting something from us, stubborn refusal on both sides ended as a sandstorm descended and we scrambled into the Landy to escape the fury of the sand that lashed our faces. For hours storm raged, then as quickly as it arrived it departed. Our ‘friend’ on his bike was still there, shaking sand from his clothes he again pressed us to ‘buy fossils’, we still refused and with a shrug he finally trudged away hauling his bike through the sand.

Knowing that we still had plenty more desert to visit, we packed up and headed to the coast and the capital city Rabat. There we needed to get visas for our onward travels- Mauritania, Mali and Niger.

Frustrating days
Several frustrating days were spent at embassies queuing, filling in forms, attaching photos and, of course, paying money, before we had all the relevant documents and could set off south down Morocco’s long coastal road to the remote border with Mauritania.

We passed the famous Casablanca where we enjoyed ice cream on the wind lashed beach, and continued on through Essaouira and Agadir, camping each night on the beach, watching the surfers catch the big ones, as this coastline is surfer’s paradise. Further on to Laayoune, the number of camper vans dwindled until we reached Dakhla where we dutifully reported in with the police, registered for the convoy no longer operates and peace has been restored along the Western Sahara, but at that time it was the only way to drive from Dakhla to the border with Mauritania, Guergarat.

It involved long waits in the sun starting at 7am, lots of paperwork, and more waiting. At 5pm the convoy got the go ahead and a free –for-all ensued as everyone raced at their own rate down to the military camp at Guergarat through the failing light into the night. Hours later we rolled into the camp and duly warned not to stray from the marked area as there were landmines all around.

Too tired to eat we climbed on the roof and fell asleep under the stars. The next morning was more chaos, queuing, waiting and passports retrieval. Passports were all in the boot of an army car and the officer in charge pulled them out at random and called out the name. As you got yours you went to your vehicle, drove out of the fort, turned left and passed the sign bidding you farewell from Morocco and onto the ‘Spanish Road’.

A sign announcing ‘Pirez’ (mines) and a blown u Land Rover 20 metres off the road reinforced the point. Welcome to Mauritania. We exchanged sweaty looks and wondered what lay ahead. Through the heat of the morning we carefully kept on the remains of the road as Morocco disappeared in our dust, and arrived at what made do for a Mauritanian immigration checkpoint- the back of a 4x4 with a shade cloth over a folding desk and chair for the man with a stamp to preside over.

Today he was charging US$10 for an entry stamp on an increasing scale if you argued. So, taking note we presented passports and US$20, got our stamps and headed into Nouadhibou, as on three sides is desert and the remaining side is Atlantic Ocean. After changing money we found a small ‘auberge’ (guest house) and parked in the yard. Immediately we were the centre of interest from another group of travellers ho were driving a motley collection of old two-wheel-drive cars down from France to sell in Senegal.

The next stage of the journey was two days through the desert followed by ‘the beach run’ – you used the beach when the tide was out and hoped you made it through before the tide returned and sucked you deep into the sand or even out to sea. Of course, everyone wanted the well equipped four-wheel-drive to travel with them so when they got stuck, with no equipment most vehicles had no spare tyres or even a spade- the properly equipped four-wheel-drive could pull them out.

Nouadbihou to Nouakchott

The directions to drive from Nouadbihou to Nouakchott are roughly: find the railway line in Nouadbihou, follow it east for 33kms then cross it, turn south and follow the firm sand for two days. Then, when you come to the big flat plains, head west until you hit the beach, wait for the tide to go out and drive and drive down the beach Nouakchott. Sounds simple enough and off we went, all tanks full of fuel and water as appropriate, along the railway line and south into the desert.

The first day went well and we were only a little nervous when we climbed onto the roof to sleep and saw nothing but desert in every direction, and no sound save the desert geckoes clacking away. Half way through day two we dropped onto the plain and saw a vehicle in the distance. Encouraged we drove towards it, only to find it was half buried wreck. With spirits subdued and the heat rising, we ploughed on across the trackless waste, Jennifer constantly watched the compass as I stares at the empty horizon.

It was impossible to drive straight without the compass, no landmarks and the sun straight above casting no shadow, so it was with immense relief that we saw the sea, blue and cool looking. Skirting around a large hole dug in the beach- which we later found out an overland truck had been stuck in for eight days, we tried to find someone to tell us about the tide. We found no one.

After a couple of forays onto the beach, we managed to get through the soft sand onto slightly firmer sand and found a fishing boat with crew, the captain of which needed to go to Nouakchott. We asked about the tide assuming a fisherman would know, and we should leave now, so he hopped in and down the beach we went.

The tide was not going out but coming in, and more and more we found ourselves edging up the beach, until we diverted over a rocky outcrop covered in sand. The rocks below us groaned and the sand grabbed at the front tyres. Slipping into low range we gained more traction but suddenly the rock under the rear driver’s wheel collapsed, leaving us perched over the incoming tide.

We clambered out to find the front wheels up to the diff in sand, one rear wheel over the cliff, and the left hand rear wheel the only wheel giving traction. It did not look good, if we cleared the front wheels the Landy would topple over into the sea, so we used the Hi Lift jack at the rear of the Landy and went rock hunting to build up under our suspended tyre. It took three hours to complete and we were just easing the sand plate under the front wheels when a vehicle came down the beach towards us.

We cheered at the thought of help but the vehicle didn’t slow, instead tried to squeeze past our precariously hanging Landy, it too got stuck barely inches from the front of our vehicle, then the owner leaped out exclaiming: “I am stuck, you must help me”.
Astounded we explained that we too are stuck and had been trying to move for the last four hours, “but” he protested, “you will be OK, you have a Land Rover.”

Digging in the blazing sun, your Landy hanging over the cliff with the real possibility of it getting washed out to sea does not improve your temper. We explained to the driver that the only direction our Landy was going was forward and if his vehicle was in the way, then tough, we could go over it if necessary. He got the message, scrabbled under his car to free it, backed off and brought us orange drinks in repentance. Nervously I clambered aboard checked low was engaged and started Lara up, then I eased the revs up and slipped in the clutch. Increasing the revs the Landy gripped on the front sand plate crawled forward, and off the cliff edge much to everyone’s joy. But it was short lived –to go further forward I had to reverse back down the cliff to get a run up. Normally I don’t mind reversing but this was the worst reverse move I have ever done and those few moment lasted a lifetime.

A close Call
Safely back at the beach the tide lapping at the tyres I revved up and charged up the slope, accelerating into the deep sand. We started slipping towards the edge, so gently pressing the accelerator I rocked the steering wheel to find grip on the sand plates we had left in the soft sand. Suddenly both wheels gripped and I shot forward away from the cliff edge amid cheers from the small band of spectators.

It had been close, too close. That event marked Mauritania on my memory as the rest of the country was potholed roads, corrupt officials deserted villages on the ‘road of hope’ which was originally going to connect the west coast of Africa to the east coast. Like so many other good ideas, it never really got very far, but we hopefully followed its route until the road turned south, and went instead to Mali.

Following The River
Sweat, digging, dancing, feasting and four-wheel-driving, it’s all part of the journey through Mali, Niger, Chad and Sudan.

Mali’s colour and cuisine was vibrant after the sand, dust, and dryness of Mauritania, and our first night we feasted on roast chicken and chips in a delicious sauce. However the roads went from potholed to corrugated limiting our speed to 20mph, so we left the main roads and took of down small sandy tracks, following the banks of the River Niger as it flows through Mali. The river breathes life into Mali, boats ply up and down carrying people, animals and tradable goods.

Occasionally there are bridges mostly too small for the Landy, and a few ferries ply vehicles across at strategic points. We slowly explored our way down the river’s route to Djenne, where the famous local market that has thrived for years connects commodities salt from the north (Timbuktu), cloth from the east, wood working from the south and livestock from the west.

At 6am a few people stroll across the empty square and by the nine it is a heaving mass of traders and stalls, we spend the whole day ambling and watching, then listen at night-fall as everyone celebrates a successful day before heading back to their villages and homes. Most of the buildings in Mali are mud brick with stick support but most importance is given to the Mosques. Small, medium or large, each village has one nearby and each one is beautifully constructed and carefully looked after.

We marvelled at each one we drove past, bush camping between the remote villages and watching the sunset sitting around the fire, before retreating under the mosquito net suspended over the roof. Our next choice was whether to head into Nigeria and on into South Chad or across Niger and into North Chad. We opted for the latter as Nigeria was in violent turmoil and was charging UK citizens US$100 for a visa, so we chose Niger and the Lake Chad route.

Exit from Mali
We continued following the River Niger from Mali into Niger itself. Our exit from Mali was unpleasant as we had failed to get our Carnet de Passage (temporary import document) stamped on entry because they had told us this was unnecessary for Mali. The customs official at the thought different, and ranted and raged and told us to return back to Nara where we have entered and get it stamped. We declined to do this saying our visa was about to expire so we couldn’t and after much storming around he finally stamped the Landy first in, then out, of Mali and said he would shoot us should we ever return.

So as we stood at Niger immigration imagine our dismay when the custom official declared we must return to Mali because we did not have a police exit stamp from there. After explaining what would happen to us, and asking if a Mali stamp really affected sovereign Niger, he relented and we happily made a hasty exit from the border taking the averagely potholed road to Niamey. There we had to negotiate a visa for Chad- not easy, so we applied in triplicate, sent in four photographs each then went to Niger’s main national park, Park W named so because the river forms a W shape through the park. It is a very run down park with few visitors and a 4WD was essential for its neglected roads.
It boasts elephant, lion, hippo, cheetah, leopard and buffalo as well as a healthy antelope selection, but the animals were very wary and ran from the car so we enjoyed taking photos of lots of animal bottoms. At the night the rangers placed paraffin lamps around the unfenced campsite saying this would keep out lions as they don’t like the smell. The amount of lion prints through the camp next morning showed that not to be true. After returning to Niamey and finding our visas for Chad approved and ready, we stocked up on excellent chock’ au pain and headed east. Unfortunately the north of Niger was having rebel uprisings (including tourist hijackings/kidnappings) so we were unable to go to the famously beautiful Air Massif and Tenere desert, and had to content ourselves with skirting its southern edge.

This brought is fair share of sand clogged roads between small villages, where small groups of children would come to stare at the strange people. Here we had no common English, French, Arabic but found smiles, sweets and arm waving the only way to communicate in exchange for smiles, bread and diesel fuel.

Desert Directions
Passing through Maradi, Zinder and Diffa we drifted into the dusty bowl called Nguigmi where we traded for fuel from jars and scrounged water from the well before carefully getting all our exit stamps and carnet stamps and asking for directions to Liwa in Chad. Laughing, the immigration officer pointed into the desert and muttered some Arabic phrase. The road lasted bout 200 metres, then we turned the corner to find a bus stuck in the sand with two wheels missing and two other 4WD vehicles also stuck.

We came to an abrupt halt and joined and joined the group of stuck vehicles. We dug each other out (except the wheel-less bus) and ploughed on a bit further before finding a shady, firm patch of sand and parked up for the night, planning an early, cooler start. It was just as well, as the route was two very deep ruts through the sand which, if we followed, left the Land Rover suspended by its diffs, all four wheels in the air. So we forged a slow path beside it, getting stuck a couple of times on the first day, but barely covering 20 miles. The next day it got worse, the sand was deeper and softer, the sun seemed hotter and we found ourselves stuck much more frequently.

The third day was worst, the wind in the night had erased all tracks from the light vehicles and the deep ruts pierced high dunes that we couldn’t follow, so we had to make our way around the dune formation and find the track on the far side. It was slow work, first walking dunes, then manoeuvring the Landy over the firmest crests and charging down far side, dancing with Landy as the rear wheels tried to overtake the front. By the end of the day we were sunburnt, exhausted and lost, having failed to find any further tracks. We decided to stop where we were for the day and rest all the next day o get our strength back we had covered 4km that day in ten hours-most of the time spent digging.

African Tradition
As we set about rigging shade a man carrying a large spear with a group of children around him wandered up and started talking Again, we had no common language but he mentioned that we should follow the children who would run ahead of the car, he then promptly satin the Landy. Bemused we were pushed out of the current hole and chugged over the dunes, following the children as they ran over the firmest route to a nearby village, just in time to see a goat suspended by its hind legs have its throat slashed open.

We had arrived on a Muslim holy day, celebrated when Abraham in the Bible didn’t sacrifice his son Isaac, and each year this was remembered by killing the best goat/cow that the village has and feeding a third to family a third to friends and a third to the poor. At this village remote in the Sahara desert there was only family and friends until we arrived and became the poor.

Therefore we were led into the shade and we all sat on a rug and feasted on a third of goat – starting with intestines, do you know how much stomach there is in a goat? The ribs, then brain and eye, and finally the leg, which tastes very much like lamb. We ate through the courses not to offend, and tried not to think too much of our meal. Between courses we tried to teach them English and they tried to teach us whatever their language was (we never did find out) which led to much hilarity as we sung ‘Head, shoulders, Knees and Toes’ with actions. They then did a similar song and dance routine, which we tried to copy but ended up all falling over and talking utter gibberish.

We also put the tool box to good use, having not needed it much so far, we fixed a few broken things around the village: grain grinders (which pleased the women), axe handles, door hinges and such like. Then came a solemn moment when the old man took an ornate key from around his neck, handing it to a young boy who speed off with it to the Mosque. A few minutes later he was back, carrying something in his arms draped in a purple cloth, the old took it from him delicately and we held our breath as he lifted it off the cloth to reveal a cuckoo clock.

As we stood giggling he demonstrated that the cuckoo bird no longer worked, obviously we were meant to fix it. So I opened up the back of the clock and peered inside and found that the wire to the cuckoo had been neatly cut-someone had got fed up with it going off ever hour day and night and cut it. I looked up at the faces watching me wondering whether to fix it for the old man, or keep it broken for the sake of the village sanity. I declared that I couldn’t fix it and an audible sigh passed around the crowd and we all went back to eating the next course of goat.

Early next day a small child was pushed into the front o the Landy and told “camel”. He sat rigidly clutching onto the dashboard letting go only to point in on one direction or another across the dunes following the camel route.
He guided us back to the vehicle tracks and before we had stopped he leaped from the Landy and we saw him running back over the dunes to his village, probably never to forget his ride in a Land Rover.

Strange Country
From there on we stuck close to the tracks not wishing to get lost any more. It was still three more days before we found the small desert town Liwa, only 180 km from the border, but eight days of sweat, digging, dancing, feasting and four-wheel-driving.

Chad was a strange country, desperately in short of nearly everything except sand, and we had endured as much of that as we could take for now. Our task was to secure a visa to Sudan, and permission to cross eastern Chad. At the Sudanese embassy they eyed our British passports with suspicion then asked: “So, are you coming back to recolonise Sudan?” A little taken aback I smiled and replied that yes Britain was once again going to resume its former colonial power, this was greeted with a larger grin and assurances that our visas would be ready the next day.

Sure enough, the next day we collected our passports complete with 30 day visas for Sudan. Then we worked our way through the series of check points and crashed trucks that characterise eastern Chad, at night pulling off the road into the scrubby bush desert to camp with local travellers who eagerly wanted to swap their four leg drive camels for our four-wheel-drive Landy.

It was on one such off road excursion that we suffered our first puncture of the journey, which after six months was not bad going, although the tyres were starting to look a little worn after so much sand driving and corrugated gravel tracks. At Abeche we completed our last police checkpoint and only remote border post of Adre was between Sudan and us. Formalities at Adre were as tedious as usual, but polite, and after an hour all paperwork was stamped, checked and restamped.

We rolled down the sandy track up to the last barrier, the soldier swung hid AK47 rifle over his shoulder and wandered up to the Landy. “You must pay me US$100 tax before you leave” he declared, laughing at him I protested that no such tax was payable, he dropped to 50 and I continued to protest don to 20 then 10. Hot, thirsty, and irritated, I finally exploded and yelled, “I have a big Land Rover and you have a little barrier, if you don’t move it the Land Rover will!” Bemused, and probably not accustomed to road rage, he laughed then hurried off to remove the barrier from our path.

Chad behind us, we drove into the heat of Sudan. At the border the officials came out to greet us smiling and complimenting the British car’ we were driving, and how happy they were to have us visit their country. The relief we at friendly officials was short lived as they refused to stamp our passports because it was too late in the day, we had forgotten the two hour time difference between Chad and Sudan and it was now 4pm on a Thursday.
Worse still, Friday, Saturday and Sunday the border was closed to foreign traffic because the man with the stamp was on holiday until Monday. So for four nights we camped at the border and they provided us with tea and water while we sat patiently waiting until Monday to get our entry stamp. On Monday the same guy who had provided us with tea all weekend unlocked his desk pulled out his stamp and declared his holiday over. We were stamped in and given a careful route to follow, meticulously written down for us by the army to avoid any rebels and to be presented to any army posts we encountered.

Basically it said turn right out of the border town go south east for a few days until you reach the railway line then follow the railway line north until a town called El Obeid near where the safe tar road stars.

Polite Interrogation
Clutching this authorisation we once again set off through the desert in a vague direction to find a railway line. The sand here was not so deep, but littered with bushes and small trees a good number of which we wiped out as we wiped out as we kept our momentum going while sliding over the soft patches, trying to keep all four wheels pointing forward. Every soldier we saw stopped us and carefully checked our papers before politely waving us on.

The railway line led us nicely onto a beautiful tar road, such a road we had seen since Morocco. For three months we had driven on grave, sand, potholed excuses for roads and more sand, then this new shiny perfect tar road. As we drove onto it from the desert everything went quiet except the hum of the tyres and the growl of the engine, the knocks rattles clinks and clanks we had become accustomed to ere silent as we glided across the smooth road, it was a moving moment.

Sudan continued to be full of surprises, the people were exceptionally friendly offering accommodation and food while refusing anything in return. While the rest of the world has shut off Sudan economically because of its supposed terrorist links, the home industry has been booming with takeaways such as Mac Doogles and Burger Queen and supermarkets and most exciting of all to us- ice cream parlours. Aside from its food, Khartoum is an amazing historic city, the place where the White Nile (from the west) and the Blue Nile (from the east) meet to form the mighty Nile River that follows up into Egypt, and the country has more pyramids and ancient sites than Egypt.

So we took off to visit a few and spent magical nights camped beside temples constructed to Ra and other ancient gods, marvelling at walls of hieroglyphics that have never been translated and standing in quarries where half carved statues and perfectly square blocks still clung to the rock face. It was a step back in history and only our limited time prevented us from spending much longer amongst these peaceful monuments. Our visa’s thirty days was been eaten up rapidly and extending it was not possible, the possibilities of people staying longer without being some kind of spy was incomprehensible thought to the government so our onward path took us east into Ethiopia.
Leaving behind the perfect tar roads of the cities, we exchanged them for the rocky tracks of the Ethiopian Highlands.
Love, Life and Goats
Our first town in Ethiopia was Gonder, the ancient capital of Abyssinia, its magnificent citadel looming over the town. Here we were introduced to the Ethiopian coffee ceremony, this entails roasting the coffee beans, grinding them, more roasting and plenty of incense in between ending in a tiny but gorgeous flavour-packed thimble of coffee of which you drink three or four over the course of an hour while chatting away about love, life and goats.

Ethiopians love the social life and any chance to entertain a visitor and ask questions about the world is seized upon and always accompanied by the coffee ceremony making a five minute chat into a two hour discussion- nothing happens with any great haste. From the Gonder we negotiated the rocky trails northwards to Lalibella a small town in central north Ethiopia that boasts 13 churches but no ordinary churches they were all carved down into solid rock and all the shape of crosses.

Some believe them to be the work of angels and connections have been made to the Knights Templar, the Ark of the Covenant and many more mysteries. It gave a strange mystique to the small town perched upon the mountainside. Continuing north we headed to Africa’s fourth highest mountain peak, Mount Ras Dashen. The rocky tracks up to the Simien mountains is where we started getting punctures, the sharp, hard rocks tore chunks from our sand smoothed tyres and the wheel change routine became fairly regular, using local beside-the-road repair shacks to patch up the inner tubes and refit the tyre, at Addis we would see about getting replacements.

As we climbed in altitude the engine’s power reduced as the air thinned, we really should have changed the reeds in the fuel injectors, but they just weren’t available on the mountain range. As we reached 3 000 metres we at struggle too, walking up even small inclines left us breathing heavily so we stayed at first camp for a couple of days to adjust the altitude. Then the weather closed around us. Hail, thunder and lighting smashed around our camp as we sat huddled in the Landy until it passed below us, then watched from above as it thundered down the valley, in awe at nature’s mighty power as it lashed the mountains.

Monkey business
The next day dawned bright and dry and we eased the Landy up to the top camp at around 3, 800 metres. From here we would ascend to Mount Ras Dashen on foot hoping to catch a glimpse of the rare mountain ibex, simein wolf and enchilada baboon species found only in this mountain range.

With good fortune we spotted some wolves on the way to the summit and then when we had finally struggled to the peak and sat gasping for breath, taking in the beautiful panorama around us, we caught sight of some ibex nimbly hopping around the cliff edges. The mountain valleys plunged down below us revealing villages dotted on the valley floor, fields planted and the lower slopes, but no visible way down to them, we wondered what contact some of these people had with the outside world if, indeed, any.

We urged our weary legs to carry us back to camp, still looking for the baboons, the air temperature hovering at 2ºC but the sun blistering down in the thin air. Camp was a welcome sight and there, sitting around the camp, were the enchilada baboons complete with their long hair and red hears. The Landy was grateful to descend back down to a lower altitude as we bid farewell to the highlands and took our sunburnt ears and noses towards Abbis Ababa.

In Addis we sought out a Land Rover dealer and while they serviced the Landy with lashings of fresh grease, oil and filters we went in search of tyres and fence wire. We located some Michelin X tyres and bought five, this put an end to our punctures and gave the Landy a more stable grip on the road again. The fence wire was for the radiator grill, fine mesh wire mounted in front of the radiator stops insects and grass seeds getting through and imbedding themselves in the radiator, because soon we would descend out of Ethiopia into the vast savannah plains of the rift valley.

Amazing Cathedral
Addis was in rainy season and each afternoon we took refuge in the fabulous Sheraton hotel and watched hail stones bounce off the road as we sipped on every expensive coffee and used their very plush cloakrooms. In one park in Addis they are building a cathedral called the peoples cathedral, built from donations from the people of Ethiopia. No machinery is being used, the scaffolding is wooden, the construction all by hand by volunteers and already it is an amazing spectacle, we aim to go back again when it is finished.

But for now wee continued southwards, off the highlands of central Ethiopia into the flatter and more populated areas that border Kenya, Somalia and Sudan. Here we found the local people more used to tourists and a lot more demanding of money/food/sweets/clothes and not always without threats. We even had rocks thrown at the Land Rover, thankfully they all missed.

We arrived at Moyale where we had a slight problem with the customs official because of the lack of a customs stamp in exactly the right place in the vehicle carnet. Over the border in Kenya the road is tightly controlled by the military. They have a lot of problems with Somali bandits, so a daytime convoy, ‘simple’ they said ‘just stay on the road and only stop for the military check points, these would be easy to spot as they always have either a tank or armoured car across the road, should you breakdown don’t expect help and you will get robbed so hide some but not all of your money. Apart from that, good luck.’

Thus encouraged wee set off on what we had been warned by several people was ‘the worst road in Africa’. Well, it was our lucky day because despite the deeply piled shingle the road was no problem for the high clearance of the Landy and no breakdowns or bandits beset us, two days later we rolled into Isiolo and back onto tar roads (albeit potholed).
It had been some years since we had been some years since we ad been in Kenya but not much in the north had changed. However, as we visited Nairobi and Mombassa the effects of the good years of tourism were decaying as developments that had sped up were now quickly falling into despair.

The tourism bubble has dipped in Kenya as other destinations opened up, while crime and prices soared in Kenya. The capital nicknamed Nairobbery was almost empty of tourists and we stopped only long enough to get a replacement lock for the driver’s door. (the other one had fallen out on the road from Ethiopia) before taking the crumbling road to the coast a little north of Mombassa.

Here we hired a small cottage over looking the clear azure Indian Ocean in a deserted complex where we swam, slept and enjoyed the quiet beaches and before we knew it two weeks had sped by. The coast along here can do that, life is very laid back, no one is in a hurry and fish, fruit and drink are in abundance. We dragged ourselves away as our visa was only for 30 days. This time we decided to miss out on the big game parks of east Africa as we intended to spend longer in the southern Africa parks Hwange (Zimbabwe) Etosha (Namibia) and Kruger (South Africa).

So by passing the Masai Mara and the Ngorogoro crater we crept into the shadow of Mount Kilimanjaro Africa’s highest peak at 5,892 metres. The transit visa cost us US$45 each for seven days in Tanzania (30bdays would have been US$100) and we spent the first three days around the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro hoping to catch a glimpse of the mighty mountain, it stubbornly remained cloud clad and we had to depart. The morning we left the clouds parted and were granted a magnificent view of the snow capped mountain peak.

Unlicenced Cargo
The next three days we whizzed through Tanzania and zoomed into Zambia where our progress was rapidly slowed by the lovely Zambian police. Outside every is a police barrier where they test your lights, indicators, horns, windscreen wipers, reversing light and check your paperwork. Of course they were always disappointed to find everything in perfect working order but this did not stop them making up something to try and fine you for, such as one policeman who claimed that a bag on the back seat meant we were carrying cargo which we did not have a licence for.

We moved the bag and refused to pay the ‘fine’, he shouted and refused to move his barrier, so we got out and had lunch beside the road, while a queue started to form from behind the Landy. Eventually he raised the barrier and told us to get lost. Which we promptly did, as there are very few signs in Zambia and our only map was the good old (if slightly inaccurate) Michelin map. Neither is there much traffic, so we wandered across Zambia visiting small towns and villages f names we never discovered, where the people always helped us find food, fuel and accommodation pointing us out of the road the next day in what always turned out to be the right way, eventually bringing us to Victoria Falls which straddles the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe. On the Zambian side the sleepy but slowly developing town of Livingstone offers several places to stay, all within easy access of the falls.

At any time of the year it’s a spectacular view, when we were there it was high water and rainbows abounded both above and below as you meandered along the slippery walkways getting soaked to the skin with the spray from the falls. On the Zimbabwe side the view is slightly further back, giving a much fuller view of the width of the falls to watch the water cascade over into the gorge below where you can white-water-raft through a spectacular series of rapids for a real adrenaline boost.

It was while we were here that the troubles started in Zimbabwe, beginning with the currency being pegged at the banks to50 Zimdollars to1 US$ while on the street it changed at 2,000 Zimdollars to US$1. Then came the first expelling of the farmers causing the currency to plunge further and most tourists to depart. We decided to still visit Hwange national park 200kms south of Victoria Falls and found ourselves the only tourists in the north of Africa’s largest game park.

Lone Travellers
It was amazing, we got up each morning chose a track to meander down spending the days watching elephants, lions, cheetah, rhino, buffalo, zebra and more, returning to the camp at dusk having met no one the whole all day. It took a month before we tore ourselves away and returned to Victoria Falls where we were met with empty food stores, three hour queues for ten litres of fuel and sugar had become a black market commodity. It was shocking to see such a progressive country suddenly take such a huge step backwards. With sad hearts we left Zimbabwe and cut the corner of Botswana, then arrived in Namibia, the country that we had met in twelve years ago.

The end of the Road, or is it? Simon and Jennifer finish their journey through Namibia to South Africa and decide it’s not time for the Landy to relax just yet.

Crossing into Namibia was quite a moment for us, it was the country here we first met and fell in love, and in a strange way it was like returning home. The vast empty spaces, blistering hot days and star filled nights all seemed so familiar as memories flooded back. Despite being two-thirds desert Namibia has an excellent infrastructure of main roads going north to south, one good road across the middle linking the coast with Botswana across the Kalahari Desert and a myriad of gravel and sand roads with mountain passes.

Littered in between with a few small villages, a couple of towns, one major city and lots of animals and wide open spaces. Crossing the Caprivi Strip we spent our first night back in Namibia on the banks of the Kavango River. We set up our camp and as the evening chorus of grunting hippos welcomed us back we sat down to watch the shadows slide over the distant mountains in Angola on the far side of the river.

Early next morning the hot sun heated us out of our slumber and we left the river and skirted around the top of the Kalahari Desert towards Etosha national park. It’s a long, hot journey on a beautiful tar road with little or no traffic so we took stops every two hours to stretch and break boredom. At last the gate to Etosha appeared and we sneaked in a couple of hours before sunset to enjoy a drive to Namatoni camp where the howl of jackals failed to keep us awake for long.

Etosha has excellent game viewing. It is a game reserve the size of Wales, a large part of which is a mostly dry salt pan (Etosha not Wales) and we spent days sitting at the waterholes watching the wildlife in all its glory. Working our way across from the east gate of the park to the west gate took us a leisurely week and lots of film but eventually we exited and headed into Kaokaland in the northwest of Namibia.

It’s real four-wheel-drive territory in this beautiful and remote corner of the country with a surprise around every corner, mountain passes plunge into large flat rocky desert plains dotted with patches of savannah. This area tested our off-road skills as we negotiated the rocky trails and dry river crossings. We push camped our way through the region avoiding camping in the dry river beds (which can flash flood when there is rain further north) and usually found ourselves in bed shortly after sunset as the howl of hyenas and grunt of lions echoed around to remind us we were in their territory now.

The only people who live in this area are the Himba tribe, a tough and beautiful tribe of herders who coat their skin in a combination of cow fat and crushed red ochre stone which gives them a stunning red glow. They survive in this hard hot remote area herding their goats and cows from pasture to pasture as the seasons dictate in a semi nomadic lifestyle.

Turtle-y Marvellous
We passed the old German fort at Sesfontein and found oasis of warmquelle at Ongongo falls where a waterfall plunges into a turtle inhabited pool and escape from the intense heat which was topping 40 degrees every day. Ten days whizzed by before we were able to tear ourselves away from this paradise and plunge back into the heat and dusty roads. The next Oasis was Palmwag, a frequent spot for the desert elephants to be seen at but our stay went by with only the night howls of jackals and hyenas serenading us to sleep.

Next was Spitzkoppe Mountain which rises up out of the surrounding flat savannah plains like magnificent monument to mother nature. It was once home to the San bushman and we found their art work on rock and in caves all over the mountain, now it’s a community run camp site with twelve remote spots to camp dotted around the mountain base. It is our favourite place to camp in Namibia, the nearest town of any size is over 200 miles away and on the moonless nights the stars stretch the horizon to horizon while shooting stars blaze their way across the night sky on the widest possible screen, placing you in the best cinema seat in the world.

Full of awe from this spectacle we drove to the coast where the gravel roads are replaced by roads made of compacted salt, and back into human habitation in Swakopmund, Namibia’s seaside town. Here, Simon foolishly hurled himself from an aeroplane at 10,000 feet to skydive towards the Namib desert, plunging towards the ground at a ridiculous speed before opening the parachute and gliding down at a more sedate pace.

It’s an amazing experience with awesome views of the mighty, hot Namib Desert meeting the blue, cold Atlantic Ocean but it was a relief to be back on the ground and return to the earth bound safety of our Land Rover. We also tried sandboarding in the desert plunging down the dunes clinging to the board as the sand whipped our faces before we unceremoniously crashed into the next dune instead of steering around it.

After shaking the sand out of every nook, cranny and pocket we left the coast for the capital Windhoek to visit some friends from the past years, also we took the opportunity to give the Landy a good look over and a service. A change of filters, new fan belt and greasing of all the hubs and joints left her eager to set off again but misfortune struck as Jennifer was in a road accident while travelling in a minibus. She was rushed to hospital and underwent surgery to repair her broken leg, shoulder and smashed arm. Pins and plates inserted, it was over a week before Simon wheeled her from the hospital, then came the weeks of slowly building up her strength and courage before she could try walking again.

Twelve weeks after the accident she walked unsupported to the plane, which, which flew her back to the UK for further treatment. Four months later she flew back to Windhoek to continue our journey.

Gently Does It
Gently we started again making adjustments to how we did things while we travelled. We still camped but put a roof tent on the Land Rover, at first it was a struggle it was a struggle to get Jennifer up and down the ladder but determination and a couple of practice trips to Spitzkoppe helped us sort out the adaptations. Then we continued to explore Namibia, heading deep into the Namib Desert to Sossusvlei, struggling up some of the highest sand dunes in the world then sliding down them. Slowly we meandered through the hills and towns that cling to the edges of the Namib desert, visiting places like Helmeringhausen and Maltahohe that seemed lodged in a time warp, the heat sapping any idea of time.

Last stop in Namibia was Fish River Canyon, a vast geographical system of the year because of flooding and the intense heat build-up in the canyons but our timing was good and we took one of the four-wheel-drive tracks through the hills and down into the canyons where we enjoyed the peace and tranquillity camped by the river, swimming (there are no crocs or hippos) and admiring the bird life that bustled in and out of the reeds.

Finally we decided we were ready to leave Namibia and emerged out of the canyons to complete our journey to South Africa, to finish our journey to South Africa, to finish our journey from the very north of the African continent to the very south. The South African border was just ahead as we got our passports and vehicle documents stamped by the Namibian officials, it was a strange moment. The beautiful country of Namibia which had given us our moments of greatest happiness but also our greatest sorrow was being left behind and part of our hearts will always be there among its wilderness.

Teary eyed we rolled over the diamond bearing Orange River into the vast sea of flowers in Namaqualand then the vineyards of Western Cape and finally magnificent Table Mountain towering over Cape Town. We climbed the mighty mountain on a clear bright sunny day and stood at the top gazing in all directions. North, over the continent we had struggled through, remembering the people and places, the feelings and faces. It was a long way and time from that snowy day in Scotland.

West, the angry cold Atlantic Ocean beat its spray against the jagged coastline. South, the warmer Indian Ocean swelled around the harbour. East, the country of South Africa and beyond into Mozambique. And we reached one destination only to find that there more beyond it. Clambering down the mountain sat in the Landy and pulled out the trusty Michelin map of Southern Africa and started to plot a route through South Africa, Mozambique, Malawi…