The Adventure Diary (We've made it - July 2008)When we last heard from the intrepid Outside Edge adventurers they were full of optimism and fired up by the beauty of our own South African coastline. This is the final story, of the long and sometimes dangerous journey that has tracked the outline of Africa through 33 countries. The battered expedition Land Rovers roar towards the Cape of Good Hope finishing point. “It’s a race against time,” says Kingsley Holgate. “We want to empty the much travelled calabash back into the cold south Atlantic on Madiba’s birthday. The great man has been such an inspiration to this odyssey, his picture with our family and his handwritten message in the Scroll of Peace and Goodwill, has encouraged thousands of others who live along the outside edge of Africa to endorse its pages. We’d like to thank all who have followed our story, its been great to have your support so please join us in the final countdown to the longest and most exciting humanitarian journey ever undertaken. Day 442 It’s the Billabong Classic at Jeffreys Bay – surfers from all over the world have turned up to ride the perfect Super tube. At Chatten we meet with expedition member Annelie Muller’s family. It’s a homecoming for her, tjops and steak on the braai. Johan Muller’s grandfather bought the farm from a Scotsman in 1926 and the condition of the sale was that the bar should always remain fully stocked. So after a huge dose of boeregasvryheid Annelie’s, mum and dad escort us on to the white walled thatched cottages of St Francis Bay and to the historic 1878 Cape St Francis lighthouse. Day 443 It’s the last day of the Knysna Oyster Festival, the sun is shining and thousands of South Africans have turned up to sip champagne and slurp oysters. Since Roman times no feast has been complete without oysters and to this day they’re still considered a tasty aphrodisiac. Land Rover sponsor us a night of luxury at the Pezula Golf Estate – we shake off the dust from our clothes and comb the beard. We photograph the early morning view over the Knysna Heads. Once again we are reminded that we have the most varied and beautiful coastline in Africa. Day 445 Historic Mossel Bay, Vlees Bay, Kanon Punt and the mouth of the Gourits are behind us now. We’ve watched the whales at Witsand and crossed the Breede at Malgas. We arrive at De Hoop Nature Reserve on the full moon in the cold. Sonja Chadwick and Sanet Stemmet are there to meet us. After 445 days on expedition it’s a bit of luxury in the fynbos. Great accommodation in Cape Ducth style cottages and more boeregasvryheid. World first Humanitarian Expedition Succeeds. Friends this is your last expedition update, the final account, of the long and sometimes dangerous journey that has tracked the outline of Africa through 33 countries. The battered expedition Land Rovers roar towards the Cape of Good Hope finishing point. “It’s a race against time, we want to empty the much travelled calabash back into the cold south Atlantic on Madiba’s birthday. The great man has been such an inspiration to this odyssey, his picture with our family and his handwritten message in the Scroll of Peace and Goodwill, has encouraged thousands of others who live along the outside edge of Africa to endorse its pages. Without your support this journey could never have happened so please join us in the final countdown to the longest and most exciting humanitarian journey ever undertaken. Day 447 – South Africa’s beautiful coastline! Up before sunrise Bruce’s voice crackles over the radio. “Is this the second to last morning on expedition?” Yes, comes my reply – day 447 says Ross. From Koppie Alleen we look out over a bay that stretches from Cape Infanta to Rys Punt just east of Arniston. The view is reflected in Peter Chadwick’s sea specks sunglasses. Peter is with the World Wildlife Fund marine programme and knows this coast like the back of his hand. We look out over the bay excited to see breeching, tail slapping, Southern Right whales – they are in every direction. “Up to 40% of the world’s population of Southern Right Whales breed in this bay,” explains Peter. “It might be just a small piece of the South African coastline but in a world context it’s huge and shows the burden of what we as South Africans carry on our broad shoulders in terms of protecting these special places.” This is one of the greatest places in the world to observe this incredible marine life spectacle. We follow the sand dunes, white against the green fynbos through the missile testing area to the fishing cottages at Kassiesbaai, the Bay in Arniston named after an 1815 shipwreck and Waenhuiskrans, named after a massive lime stone cave close by. Outside the shipwreck museum in Bredasdorp hundreds of local school children line the road to welcome the expedition and sign the Scroll of Peace and Goodwill. Tables groan with the weight of koeksusters, melktert and sandwiches, and once again we’re overwhelmed by good old fashioned South African hospitality. With flashing lights and a wailing siren a red and yellow National Sea Rescue Land Rover escorts us into Struisbaai, more school children sing and wave and at Cape Agulhas, where the two oceans meet, we hand over three conservation stones taken from the most Westerly, Northerly and Easterly tips of Africa to Ettienne Fourie, manager of Agulhas National Park and Richard Mitchell, the mayor. We have a long list of lighthouses that we visited and photographed on the outside edge of Africa but the lighthouse at Cape Agulhas is surely one of the most beautiful on the entire coast of Africa. Completed in December 1848 it is styled on the famous Pharaohs Light of Alexandria in Egypt. In the early years fat from the fat-tailed sheep in the area was burned to fuel the light. Day 448 - Madiba’s birthday – 12 hours to go Early morning, the Cape Agulhas lighthouse still flashes a warning out to sea. School children at Elim message the Scroll with the words: “Happy Birthday Madiba”. A mole-hilled track bounces and shakes the overworked Land Rovers through the fynbos down to Quoin Point. “There are these small abalone poachers tracks everywhere,” says Alwyn Engelbrecht, a wonderful local character who’d spend time with us at the beginning of the expedition and is now helping us at the end. It’s a race against the clock. We’re still determined to empty the calabash at last light today. It must be on Madiba’s birthday – we owe it to the great man. At the Danger Point lighthouse Land Rover owners flash their lights in a greeting – they’ve heard we were coming and gather around to wish us well. It was off this point that the Birkenhead, then the largest ironclad ship in the Royal Navy, came to her famous end on the night of 25th February 1852. It was a wreck that immortalized the words: ‘women and children first’. All together 445 people died on the Birkenhead, but every women and child was saved. Alwyn phones ahead for fish and chips at Gansbaai. We eat them as we hug the coast – chip fat all over the steering wheel. Hermanus, Onrus, Kleinmond, Betties Bay – the beauty of this piece of Africa’s outside edge is truly remarkable. You have to have gone the full circle to appreciate the splendour of our own coastline. On to Gorden’s Bay and the Strand where more Land Rovers of well wishers join the convoy. It’s 4pm on day 448 – looking across False Bay we can see the outline of Cape Point – so near but so far. Already late afternoon clouds are covering the sun. Headlights on. The wind howls and tugs at the Landies. Down Baden Powel Drive, the shacks of Mitchell’s Plain on our right. The waves break a few meters to our left – we couldn’t be closer to Africa’s outside edge if we tried. There’s a traffic snarl-up in front. A police van has crashed into a car. “Phone the gate,” I say to Mashozi, “see if they will stay open.” Into Muizenberg, past the colourful beach huts, the railway line on the left. Men in yellow reflective jackets wave red flags. Bloody road works. On through St. James and picture postcard perfect Kalk Bay. The Cape Point gatehouse phones back. Yes, they’ll stay open. Our tyres squeal through the curves. On through Fish Hoek and historic Simon’s Town. “Slow down,” warns Mashozi as we climb up through the curves with cliffs falling away to our left. The Cape Point Nature Reserve officials urge us through the gates with waves and smiles. There’s a long line of Land Rover lights behind us. “We’re all together,” comes Ross’ voice over the radio, “let’s go.” Just a few minutes left before sunset the convoy turns hard right and drops down to Cabo da Boa Esperanca, the Cape of Good Hope. Ross shoots ahead and sets up the camera. The team bundles out of the Land Rovers. We slip over the rocks and the long tubes of black green kelp. We all place our hands on the calabash as much travelled water taken from this point 448 days ago glugs slowly back into the cold South Atlantic. With great jubilation we hug, kiss and shake hands and line up behind the Cape of Good Hope sign. Captain Morgan is tapped from the secret tank under my Landie. We raise our mugs in a salute to Mama Africa – WE’VE MADE IT.
But it is not over yet. Next day above historic Cape Town Castle adventurers Mike Rumble and Graham Field of the Garmin SkyDiving Team, armed with a Garmin GPS and a symbolic mosquito net, free fall from a helicopter and parachute down to a gathering of over 500 well-wishers. With them they bring a message of congratulations from Nobel Peace Prize laureate Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Derek Watts, well-known Carte Blance presenter introduces the expedition team. An audio-visual presentation depicts our journey and thanks the sponsors who through their involvement in this humanitarian expedition have clearly shown that they care for Africa. It’s a great celebration. Siyabonga, asante sana, salama and kwaheri – until the next one. Outside Edge Expedition Roll of Honour July 2008 When we last heard from Kingsley Holgate’s humanitarian Africa Outside Edge Expedition they had crossed from Mozambique and were having a kissing of the tar ceremony at the Kosi Bay border. With just 14 days to go to the symbolic emptying of the much traveled calabash at the Cape of Good Hope where the journey to follow the outside edge of Africa started 442 days ago. As always the expedition is hell bent on continuing to track the coastline. It’s a story best told in Kingsley’s own words.
The joy of being back in South Africa is unbelievable. Sure South Africa has got it’s problems but as the rainbow nation we have to work through them. After some of the places we’ve been through SA is an incredible paradise. People complain about the power crisis, crime and the cost of living. Try buying supplies in Libreville, West Africa. What’s in rands here will cost you dollars there. We’ve still got it good – great infrastructure and excellent value, despite the shocking fuel price, but that’s everywhere, well almost. I remember in Gadaffi’s Libya it was 17 South African cents a litre, ½ the price of drinking water, but they’re oil rich and we’re not. Talking about the oil price, we drive into Kosi Bay filing station to fuel up the Landies. Jan Dippenaar, the owner, comes out. “Not a damn you are paying for diesel in my garage,” he says. “It’s on the house. Welcome home and there’s cheese burgers all round. You look like you need a square meal.” We move on to explore the Kosi Bay lake system. It’s good to hear Zulu being spoken again and oh my goodness, the beauty of our own coast.
The Thonga have developed an ingenious method of harvesting the fish by way of communal traps, or fish kraals. Set up in the shallow, sandy channels, which wind through the main entrance to the sea and through which the fish must pass, they are made of indigenous plants and creepers. A ‘guide fence’ of branches woven together is sunk in the water across the channel, in the middle of which the fence is shaped into a narrow funnel pointing upstream. At the end of the funnel a gap is left in which a basket is suspended. This is woven in the form of a valve, on the lobster-pot principle, so that the fish can enter but cannot escape. Tied in position with fronds of the Natal wild banana, the basket is left overnight. In the morning it is untied and carried to the shore, where the nights haul is tipped onto the bank. There are about 80 of these fish kraals at Kosi Bay, each bearing up to sixteen woven baskets. All are carefully maintained, and are handed down from father to son. Sometimes they are loaned out to relatives or friends. Almost every family has some connection with a kraal and access to its fish supply.
We explore the Kosi lakes by boat and then back in the Landies south along some of the highest vegetated sand dunes in the world and beautiful places with names like Bhanganeg, Rock Tale Bay, Island Rock, Lake Sibaya, Sordwana Bay, Lake St Lucia, Cape Vidal and Mission Rocks. Our humanitarian work continues as supported by Phinda game resort Africa Foundation we distribute mobile libraries to schools in the area. At rural Ncemaneni School a hundred children with teachers from Centurus Colleges in the Pretoria area arrive for the handing over ceremony of a massive container library, complete with doors, windows, a veranda and shelves of books. The Zulu children dance in the dust and the Pretoria kids learn about the personal joy of giving. Down the Pondoland coast its more mobile libraries to rural schools and back on expedition, first gear low ratio, and sometimes on foot and by micro light over difficult terrain to follow the incredibly beautiful Wild Coast. It’s unbelievable – the sardines are running followed by giant pods of dolphins. We’ve never seen so many whales before and once again we’re overwhelmed by the beauty of our own coastline. Shipwrecks are plentiful along this coast. We stop at the wreck site of the Grosvenor. The wind tugs at my beard, tough Pondo women dive for crayfish and pull octopus and mussels from the rocks. Of the 125 Grosvenor castaways that survived the thundering surf, only 6 made it to Cape Town. The ship has settled under the waves, but treasure hunters still come here in search of bullion. At Port Elizabeth a convoy of Landies of every conceivable model escorts us into town for a welcome to PE bash. The crowd is eager to learn about our Land Rover journey through 33 countries. Nando’s provides the peri-peri chicken and Captain Morgan the good cheer. It’s a late night but fortunately sponsor Protea Hotels come to the rescue with hot showers and clean white sheets – Bloody luxury.
Next morning up at the Donkin we photograph the battered Landies in front of the stone pyramid erected by the Dean of York in 1820 in memory of his daughter Elizabeth. The port city still carries her name and down at the lighthouse at Cape Receife, with the South wind blowing wild white horses across Algoa Bay we tune into the radio to get the last few nail biting minutes of the Springbok / All Black game. “ The New Zealand supporters look like they’re at a funeral wake,” says the commentator, it’s 30 – 28 to the Bokke. This is the first Springbok side to win at Carisbrook Stadium, aptly nicknamed the House of Pain, since the two countries started playing there in 1921. We leap out of the Land Rovers and dance a gig on the side of the road. We are well and truly home – just five days to go –
Cape of Good Hope, here we come – we’ll keep you posted.
20 June 2008 Fim do Mundo - It means ‘End of the World’ in Portuguese
“Use the flesh from green prickly pear leaves,” says Arthur between sips of 2M Mozambican beer. “You just bandage it over the wound – it sucks out all the poison – works wondrously,” says Arthur Norval who with Sarah, owns and runs a delightful camp and restaurant called Fim do Mundo overlooking Baia de Vernão Veloso near Nacala, the deepest natural port on the east coast of Africa. Arthur is referring to a cure for tropical ulcers which next to malaria is one of our expedition’s biggest health problems. Richard Chapman, who has joined the expedition as a volunteer, is going through hell at the moment. Blood poisoning has set in and he has such a fever that we’ve even treated him for malaria just in case. Richard does not complain. He’s a great asset to the expedition but now he’s man down and the antibiotics are taking time to work. We use peroxide – it bubbles white on contact with the putrefying flesh. Warwick, Richard’s son straps on the prickly pear flesh but there’s no way that they will move south today. We fire up the Landies and say cheers. We’ll next meet at the World Heritage Site of Ilha de Mozambique. With us is Robbie Brozin, the CEO of Nando’s and some of his mates, they are great and have also come along as ”Malaria Warriors” to assist in the One Net One Life distribution of mosquito nets to pregnant mums and to children under the age of five, all part of our objective to save and improve lives through this adventure. It’s amazing how the simple things in life still hold true. Robbie and his mates are all highly successful businessmen, champions of commerce and industry, well able to afford the best in life, but here they are driving Landies, camping under the stars, barefoot on the beach eating simple food cooked on the coals, brushing their teeth in seawater and unselfishly assisting with our humanitarian efforts. Ilha de Mozambique
Beautiful women with the look and feel of the Swahili coast,
sing and dance to the rhythm of the drums – more than 300
mums with babies have gathered for a massive malaria prevention
day. Each one of them will receive a life saving mosquito net.
June 2008
Two expeditions meet
Backtracking to the Lamu Archipelago
To the mouth of the Tana Bagamoyo – coast of Tanzania We reached historic Bagamoyo on the coast of Tanzania. It was to Bagamoyo that David Livingstone’s salt dried corpse was carried after he had died a sad and lonely death on the shores of Lake Bangwelu in Northern Zambia. We continue the story of this incredible odyssey which has now survived 32 of the 33 countries that make up the edge of Africa. As always it’s a story best told in the Greybeard of Adventure’s own words…
Bagamoyo It took us days to get away from Bagamoyo – a group of friendly expat South Africans came out to visit us at Travellers Lodge, our expedition base camp. The support for our expedition as always was humbling. Gavin from the Engen garage outside Dar es Salaam offers to fill up all our diesel tanks. The Shoprite team fills up our Land Rover food drawers with supplies, Brad Hansen and his mate Gavin drive all the way down from Arusha in their short wheel base Landie. So here’s this bunch of South Africans in a long convoy assisting to distribute life saving mosquito nets to orphanages and clinics in and around Bagamoyo. Bagamoyo means “lay down your heart”, a poignant reminder that the town’s wealth was built using the sweat of slaves who carried ivory from the interior to be sold and were then placed on the auction block themselves. There’s a shade tree still growing in the town, from where slaves were sold before being transported across the Zanzibar Channel to the island all crushed in the dank holes of slave ships destined for Arabia, Persia or India. As the major port on the coast during the late 19th Century, it was only natural that Bagamoyo was chosen in 1888 as the site for the capital of German East Africa before being moved North to Tanga and then Dar es Salaam. Dar es Salaam
It’s getting towards the end of the rainy season and heavy clouds gather as our convoy of overworked Land Rovers creak and groan into Dar es Salaam. It was the natural harbour and its central position on the East African Coast that was responsible for the birth of Dar es Salaam which in Swahili means Haven of Peace. In 1866 the Sultan Magid bin Said of Zanzibar made plans to develop the harbour and build a palace of coral stone which he called Dar es Salaam. In 1887 the German colonists threw out the Arab rulers and firmly established their Teutonic presence which is still reflected in the disciplined lines of the city’s administrative offices. A cathedral was built and a hotel known as the Kaiserhoff opened its doors to a trickle of travellers and merchants. In 1905 work began on the central railway linking Dar es Salaam with Lake Tanganyika 1248km away to the West. After WWI when Tanzania was handed over to the British, it was natural that they should base their administrative and commercial centre in “Dar” and that they should rename the Kaiserhoff, the New Africa Hotel. We are in luck for a bit of luxury. Protea Hotels who sponsor accommodation wherever they have a presence open their doors to our motley group. It’s an opportunity for clothes to be washed, great Protea breakfasts and above all, clean white sheets and air-conditioning. Everybody emerges washed and scrubbed and even the long line of Landies in the car par gets hosed down. The city is a buzz of clubs bars and restaurants. The manager of the Yacht Club, one of Dar’s favourite watering holes, endorses our Malaria Prevention Scroll of Peace and Goodwill. British Airways, one of our malaria prevention partners, arranges for the distribution of mosquito nets to paediatric and maternity wards in a rural hospital – all part of our humanitarian journey to follow the coastline of Africa. The clouds build up and the humidity is as thick as golden syrup. Following the coast South
Spice islands, tropical breezes, white beaches, swaying palm
trees, dhow sails pregnant with the Southeast trade wind, mangrove
inlets, beautiful bays, ancient ruins and baobabs make up the
magnificent Swahili coast of Tanzania. It’s a coast we know
well, having once sailed it in an old 35 ton dhow called Amina
– Spirit of Adventure. We’d spent a year under her
lateen sail, barefoot on creaking decks, blown first by the Kusi,
the Southeast trade, all the way to Lamu and the Somali border
in the North of Kenya, and then on the Northeast trade, the Kaskazi,
back south all the way to Ihla de Mozambique. Now it is as if
the two “coast of Africa” journeys have merged into
one. We drink cold Kilimanjaro beer at 10 Degrees South, the name
of a bar in Mikandani then head for the port of Mtwara for more
malaria prevention work before heading South for Mozambique. The
only way to cross from Southern Tanzania into Mozambique’s
Northern Cabo Delgado province is to take the ferry across the
Rovuma River. Rumours are rife. Some say the ferry is not working
at all, others say it’s stuck on a sandbank. One traveller
tells us that it only runs a few days either side of high spring
tide. All agree that it’s buggered and we’ll be lucky
to cross. So with our hearts in our mouth we head across the mud
flats to the ferry point. We’ve used the ferry in the past
and it worked well when it was run by the catholic Benedictine
fathers in Mtwara, so it’s sad to hear that it’s a
falling apart. If we can’t get across it will be a huge
blow for the expedition and a detour that will take us all the
way to the top of Lake Malawi and then back down again to the
coast of Mozambique. It would mean that the expedition would have
to split – the Land Rovers going inland and some of us lucky
ones travelling by inflatable boat down through the Querimba Islands
to the Port of Pemba. I think back to the other problems we’ve
had on this journey with border crossings: the long detour to
get around the Cunene River mouth, sailing our Landies across
the mouth of the Congo River, the broken ferry into Guinea-Bissau,
the hassles of getting into Western Sahara, being turned back
at the Moroccan Algerian border and having to find a way around,
the difficult negotiations to get into Gaddafi ’s Libya,
the thousand kilometre journey across the Nubian Desert so as
to circumvent the Sudanese Egyptian Red Sea border, closed because
of a border dispute, the difficulties with the Eritrean border
and Somali pirates around the Horn of Africa. And now, so close
to home, probably the last major obstacle to completing the coast,
is yet another border ferry that might or might not be working
– well keep you posted.
We had reached the Rio Rovuma, that somewhat unexplored river that separates Southern Tanzania from Northern Mozambique’s Cabo Delgado province. Things were a bit tense. The ferry that is the only way across the river was running on one motor, it was stuck on a sandbank, had no bilge pump and was taking water. It is the only way that the expedition could cross into Mozambique and remain true to its objective of following the outside edge of Africa. The latest update is best told in the Greybeard’s own words…
After more than 400 days we can finally smell home It is absolute chaos. One large red plastic bucket, one blue. The crew up to their waists standing in the right hand side pontoons, bailing for their lives. The ferry known as the MV Kilambo is leaking like a sieve, Rovuma water is lapping around the tyres of the Land Rovers, in low ratio first gear we keep on having to inch them forward or backward so as to shift the load. I shout to my crew to put their passports and cash into their top pockets. Richard Chapman and a team of malaria warrior volunteers have driven up from South Africa in two 4x4’s to assist us with malaria prevention work. They’ve launched their rubberduck into the river to escort us across. Isn’t it amazing that a group of South Africans have taken the trouble to assist us in our adventurous humanitarian work. But there’s hardly time to chat as right now we are more worried about our expedition Landies not ending up in the bottom of the Rovuma. I shout to Richard: “Take the Scroll! If the Landies go down we need to save it.” I hand him over the khaki green canvas bag that holds the thick wooden covered book, the pages of which have now been signed by over 5000 people we’ve met on the outside edge of Africa who have endorsed the scroll with messages of peace and goodwill in support of malaria prevention. It’s been signed by presidents, priests, paramount chiefs, village headmen, health officials, governors, ambassadors and wonderful friends who have made this journey possible. Somehow we make it to the other side. We’ve been swept downstream, there’s no proper landing site and the crew have had to cut away the steep riverbank into an angle that allows us to get the Landies off. Difflock, low ratio, overworked engines roaring we get them across into Mozambique. Richard hands over the scroll. We winch through the thick black mud and on to Mozambican customs and immigration. We’ve made it. At last light we camp in a sand forest on the road to Palma. Villagers tell us that lions are still a problem here, there’s elephant dung on the track. Richard Chapman and his team have brought steak and boerewors and news from home.
The dented soot blackened camp kettle bubbles on the fire. There’s
the sound of nightjars and the whooping of a distant hyena. I
look across the firelight at my fellow expedition members; all
of them are looking a bit worn and have lost weight. There’s
Mashozi – that’s her Zulu name, or just Shozi for
short. Not only is she in charge of expedition finance, paperwork
and supplies, she’s also the Mama of the expedition. We’ve
been married for nearly 40 years and spent most of them adventuring.
I truly admire her tough little spirit and sense of adventure.
Also the dedication she puts into the humanitarian side of the
expedition, the distribution of life saving mosquito nets to pregnant
mums and infants, the spectacles to poor sighted people in remote
areas – she has a wonderful way with African people and
after a long day still knocks up a great bean stew. There’s
Ross my son, a true adventurer. He’s wearing an old t-shirt
and on his chin a few days stubble. It’s his job to run
the technical side of the expedition, navigation, radios, comms
and the filming of a documentary. H¬¬¬e is 100% dependable
and has become my right hand man on expedition. Anna, Ross’
girlfriend, with her quiet purposeful way has survived this her
first expedition. It’s been a huge challenge for her and
it’s been her job to keep the media side of this crazy journey
alive. I am not computer literate so it’s Anna who takes
the scribbles in the expedition journal and converts them into
the stories you’ve been reading. Young KZN born Bruce Leslie
stokes the fire. Five years ago he volunteered for an expedition.
It was a journey down the Rufiji River in the footsteps of Frederick
Courtney Selous. That was the start and he never left. He was
bitten by the adventure bug and we went on to circumnavigate Lake
Victoria, then sailed an Arab dhow, was stabbed in the neck by
pirates and is now circumnavigating Africa as the expedition stills
photographer. Babu Cossa is our Portuguese interpreter and malaria
educator. How he’s grown in spirit. This young Mozambican
who we met years ago is still travelling with us. The kettle has
boiled; he lines up the enamel mugs for renosterkoffie. Tonight
there are 12 faces around the fire. Eugene le Roux and William
Gwebu, the two Nando’s Fight Malaria volunteers who joined
us in Mombasa; Richard Chapman’s group who have travelled
all the way from Ballito in KwaZulu-Natal with Big John, Warick
and Tamaryn. The adrenalin ebbs from my body, the incredibly long
and difficult odyssey to track the outside edge of Africa is almost
over. The team start to talk about friends, family, pets and the
first things they’ll get up to when they get back. After
all ¬¬at the end of the day we’re just an ordinary
family and a team of volunteers who have an extraordinary passion
for Africa. Now we can finally smell home, it’s a wonderful
feeling. 33 of Africa’s outside edge countries are now complete.
We have only one border crossing back across into South Africa
left for the journey down the coast to the Cape of Good Hope from
where we’ve left some 400 days ago – well keep you
posted.
Kingsley has gone off by himself to see if the next river crossing is possible and the expedition team, Ross, Mashozi, Anna and Bruce take turns to create this week’s campfire story. Pilgrims of Adventure (Campfire stories from Kingsley’s expedition Team) Min het ek geweet wat die avontuur van ’n leeftyf werklik vir my inhou. Maar hier is ek, voete in die sand, sterrehemel my dak, krappe so groot soos bofbalhandskoene wat in die buitekant van die vuurligkring rondkruip en wegskarrel sodra ’n flitslig na hul kant toe skyn en 33 lande later. Wat ’n belewenis – ek, Annelie Muller, plaaskind van die Oos-Kaap, het dit nog nooit buite Suid-Afrikaanse grense gewaag nie, en nou, in die geselskap van seker een van die grootste ikone as dit kom by avontuur en omgee vir sy medemens wat ek nog ontmoet het, Kingsley Holgate, reis ek rondom die hele kontinent. Elke week sit ek en Kingsley so, of min of meer so, en skryf stories en staalties vir Die Burger vanuit die omgekrulde bladsye van sy ekspedisie dagboek. Soms is ons in ’n bewegende Land Rover, ander kere dalk onder ’n seil met gietende reen of in die middel van ’n sandstorm – maar daar is een gegewe: dis altyd iewers op die buitenste rand van Afrika en dis gewoonlik na ’n dag se avontuur en reeds donker. Soms voel dit soos ’n sprokie. Ek ontmoet Ross, hy verower my hart en neem my saam op dié reis – my ridder in ’n wit Land Rover. Ross het vir my gesê as jy iemand goed will leer ken moet jy haar in die bos in vat – ek dink hy het dit bietjie ver gevat! Maar die reis is dikwels alles behalwe ’n sprokie met oorblyfsels van oorlog in Angola, Liberië, Sierra Leone, mense met afgekapte ledemate, die landmynvrees en dreigende Al Quida gevaar. Maar een van die grootste oorsake van sterftes in Afrika is steeds malaria en vir my vir die eerste keer ’n werklikheid. Ek sien dringendheid en dankbaarheid waarmee ’n ma ’n muskietnet ontvang vir haar kinders, meeste het geliefdes aan die dood afgestaan. Dan trek malaria my plat en ek kry opnuut bewondering vir Kingsley wat al meer as 40 keer die dodelike koors moes oorwin. Ons is nou naby aan die huis en kan snags winter begin voel. Ek trek my stoel nader aan die vuur en dink oor hoe hierdie avontuur my lewe verander het – en dit strek baie verder as die kuns hoe om ’n viertrek in onmoontlike terein te bestuur. Mashozi, Ross se ma, sit langs my en ek vra wat sy van die ekspedisie dink. Mashozi (Gill) Holgate Oh my goodness, what can I say, this is the grandfather and the
grandmother of all expeditions we’ve ever done. Our very
first expedition was in 1993 from Cape Town to Cairo by inflatable
boats and 4x4’s. I was always alone without female company
and had to listen to conversations about our boats, what’s
broken in the vehicles and men farting and burping; but now Ross
has met Anna who is gentle, wakes up in the morning with a smile
on her face and gives me a hug. In the evenings we can have a
few little chats just about female things. When the guys are acting
gung ho, Annelie and I look at each other and wonder what is going
to come out of this one. We’ve travelled through the Sahara
with little water to spare and no bathing facilities. Isn’t
it wonderful what two girls can do, sharing a small Tupperware
of water, shampooing our hair and looking reasonable. Bruce Leslie Every day for me is different, I try and live every day as if it’s my last and give it all I’ve got. I take in and enjoy all the amazing things we see, the people we meet, the different tribes and languages we come across, some living under very harsh conditions but they still have smiles on their faces and give us a big wave or a thumbs-up – it is really rewarding for the soul. I know that some people would give their front teeth for an opportunity like this and I count myself very lucky. When I met the Holgates, everyday life on expedition was just what I needed and Kingsley trusted me on a handshake. I left Zululand to set up the Greybeard’s next adventure to go down the Rufiji River and to travel with him for two years. Now that I look back I’ve been with my new family for five years and have learnt from the greatest teacher in the biggest classroom – Mama Africa, our home. Just before we left for this Africa Outside Edge expedition I fell in love with a beautiful girl – it is difficult when two of your dreams come true at the same time. It is really hard to have a long-distance relationship when I found myself in the most remote spots in Africa and all I want to do is share this incredible experience with my girl at home – that’s the hardest thing on expedition for me. My ears are back and I can see the finishing line. Ross Holgate Isn’t technology an incredible thing. The laptop computer
has made its way around the campfire and onto my lap where at
a rapid speed of ten words per minute and the head torch’s
batteries failing, I’m asked to give a few anecdotes of
our journey circumnavigating Africa. I always find it so important
to have something to look forward to in life. A year ago it was
this expedition and now it’s getting home and hopefully
completing the greatest adventure of my life. A lot of people
ask what is it like travelling with your family – Simply
it’s like this; imagine being in a life threatening situation
and you need to know that you can trust the people around you
without a moments hesitation, getting or giving a hug when you
are tired or feverish from malaria – Being able to laugh
and joke around the fire every night even after over 400 campfires.
I am blessed now to have an extended family with Bruce becoming
an “adopted” brother and then there’s Anna –
well lets just say I have never been happier. Each day we just
run on adrenalin and the unexpected surprises around each corner.
Sunrises and sunsets, full moons and new moons- all sounds very
romantic but don’t get me wrong it has been the toughest
adventure yet. I nearly drowned the vehicle today in the Lurio
River and even managed to run over a small cat fish before getting
horribly stuck with the water swamping the inside of the Landy.
Were it not for the help of the local Mozambicans the vehicle
would have been washed out to sea to serve as a new reef. It is
strange to comprehend that our fellow South Africans back home
are killing Mozambicans in an act of xenophobia but here we are
treated with respect and humility. We give out a few mosquito
nets to pregnant mothers that have come to fetch water and wash
clothes in the river. Annelie climbs on top of the Land Rover connects to the satellite and hits send. The equipment is packed away in the vehicle and she makes her way back to join her family around the fire and so this story from around the campfire ends up with you. May 2008 A buzz in Djibouti Djibouti Port is land locked Addis Ababa’s thousand kilometre lifeline to the sea. The road in is a dangerous nightmare of dodging dodgy Ethiopian trucks, hauling fuel and goods up from the coast. Its dark by the time we limp into Djibouti city, dog tired but jubilant. 29 Countries behind us, four still to go. The last 16 days have been tough. We’ve survived a 1000 km journey through the Nubian Desert and then the Danakil coast of Eritrea – one of the hottest places on earth and an area inhabited by the wild nomadic Afar who, in the past, had the nasty habit of castrating their enemies and wearing the dried genitals around their necks as trophies. I get a nervous twitch in the groin when we come across them in the desert with their ornate daggers and camels. Of late it’s been just tracks or a Garmin GPS course - dry, rocky river beds as roads and then tyres down to 1 bar as we race the desert dunes along the Red Sea coast. Hell for the Landies, murder for the Cooper Tires, tough on the team. But the deserts and coastline of Sudan and Eritrea are some of the last frontiers of adventure. Dramatic unspoilt wilderness and coral reefs in areas seldom, if ever, visited by tourists.
There's a buzz in Djibouti city on the Gulf of Aden. Khaki coloured
Hummers and lots of military in over tight camouflage and short
haircuts. Stories of how the cruising schooner Le Ponant was recently
taken by Somali pirates, the French Navy frigate that then freed
the hostages and the crack helicopter unit that got back the ransom
money. Now it's our turn to brave the pirates around the Horn
of Africa - Zim Integrated Shipping Services, friends of our Grindrod
sponsors in Durban, come to the rescue. They will sponsor the
loading of the three expedition Land Rovers and the kit. A conservation
stone will be dropped off at the most Easterly point of Africa
and the calabash filled over 300 days ago with Cape Point seawater
will get to round the Horn of Africa.
In the cool of the afternoon there’s a buzz on the street corners – the daily plane that carries the bunches of fresh thin green stems and leaves called khat has arrived from Dire Dawa in Ethiopia. Money changes hands and the traditional chewing of this calming hallucinogenic begins. There’s the evening muezzin’s call to prayer, French soldiers walk in groups, frazzled businessmen clutch mobile phones to their ears. Tall sinuous Somali girls hang around the clubs – Djibouti protected by the French and American military is an oasis of peace and prosperity on the troubled Horn of Africa. At the beautiful old French colonial white washed palace, the president Ismail Omar Guelleh endorses the expedition Scroll of Peace and Goodwill in support of malaria prevention – he’s really a friendly character and we all get taken out to lunch – big pieces of goat.
Gerhard Botha – a boerseun from Durban who manages Djibouti’s busy container terminal, becomes the expedition’s guardian angel. The survival and success of our journey often depends on the friendly and supportive South Africans we meet along the way. Gerhard is phenomenally helpful. He puts us up in his villa – a fridge full of beer, there’s clean sheets and soft beds, TV, air-conditioning and good old South African braais. After the intense heat of the Danakil it’s as if we’ve stepped into another word. Suddenly we get the green light and race the three expedition Land Rovers down to the Port. The big 130 Defender has to have the big rolled up Gemini inflatable boats off-loaded from the roof-rack before being reversed into a container. The two Defender station wagons fit snugly one behind the other in the second container. The vehicles are tied down to the container floors with cables and turn buckles in case of a rough sea. And then we get the news that a Spanish trawler has just been taken by Somali pirates. Seems like they might be operating from a disguised mother ship. We learn that they have sophisticated equipment that picks up the radar of passing ships, they even have bank accounts in Dubai through which they channel the ransom money. It’s big business and right now there seems to be a spate of hijackings. It would be a shame if our Landies ended up as transport for gun toting Somali war lords – we’ll keep you posted.
It’s better underneath the water The authorities demand we enter Eritrea via Kasala in Sudan. A change from the desert, the town has fruit trees and mountains, bizarre sugarloaf jebels that can be seen from miles away. Kasala is a favourite destination for honeymoon couples from other parts of the Sudan. I open the guidebook to learn that in these parts it’s considered extremely erotic for a woman to show her chin. Once again there’s a ridiculous amount of paperwork and hassles and outside Kasala a roadblock that sends us back into town for yet another police clearance. Even in leaving the country the Sudanese have managed to make things as difficult as possible. But we make it across to the few mud huts that make up the Eritrean border. The friendly Eritreans are hugely surprised, not many foreign travellers come this way and they claim we are the first South Africans.
She gives me a wink and pats my belly Out of Islamic Sudan and we’re dying for a drink. We cross wide yellow grass plains with scattered flat topped acacias. It’s like the Serengeti but with far pavilions of dramatic mountains. We get into a town. Old Fiat trucks everywhere – you can tell the Italians had been here. Bruce and I walk into a rough place that says “Hotel”. Immediately the two bar girls start touching us up – the chubby one pulls at Bruce’s t-shirt and rubs his hair, the other tall and Somali looking, feels my beard, gives me a wink and pats my belly. We point at the fridge. “Beer?” we ask. “Yes, beer,” the girls nod and giggle. The fridge is full of large brown bottles with no labels. They point to some plastic chairs. There’s no doubt that they want us to stay. “How much for beer?” we ask. Their English is limited – 10 Nafka for one bottle. ”We’ll take a case,” says Bruce with a grin. I am already changing some Dollars into Nafka and can already imagine the fireside scene tonight somewhere out in this beautiful countryside: Landies, tents up, camp chairs in a half circle, but now for the first time in ages, ice cold beers and the chance to unwind after “dry” Sudan. “Let’s try one quickly before we go,” Bruce grabs two glasses off the counter and opens a big brown bottle with a flourish. We pour the contents into the glasses. It’s bloody carbonated water – our disappointment is boundless. “Oh beer,” says one of the goofed bar girls with a lopsided grin. “You’ll only get beer in Asmara.” There’s Captain at the Lion Hotel
The Catholic father allows us to climb the 300 narrow steps to
the top of the 25 metres high tower of the old Italian style cathedral
that was built in 1923. We all squeeze into the top of the tower
between the eight massive bells each of which weigh over 100 kilograms.
Below us is Asmara – it’s delightful and for me it’s
a dream come true. The first thing that strikes you is that there’s
no litter, streets are clean and there’s an air of orderliness.
The city was built as the capital of the Italian colony of Eritrea
between 1890 and 1940. Following the defeat of the Italians in
WWII Britain administered Eritrea from 1941 to 1952. Then there
was the Ethiopian occupation which resulted in the beautiful city
being neglected. Nonetheless, following the liberation of Eritrea
in 1991, the capital has regained its old charm. It seems wonderfully
free and Western after Islamic Sudan, palm trees line wide boulevards,
the packed sidewalk cafés have a mixed Italian and Eritrean
cosmopolitan feel and the art deco architecture creates the sense
of a city frozen in time. The people are lovely.
We have to wait for Eritrean government travel permits, we can’t go anywhere without them and they have to be checked out by military security. Because of the war and the closed borders with their sworn enemy Ethiopia, few foreigners visit the country let alone try to follow the coast. Today is the funeral of a military war hero and all government ministers are in attendance. We find them gathered in a big white tent outside the tank graveyard. Acres upon acres of wrecked military tanks, armoured vehicles and other relics of war, captured by the Eritreans or left behind by the Dergue while evacuating Eritrea. “We keep this place as a reminder,” says Peter from the Department of Tourism. We walk through the masses of mostly Russian vehicles, tanks and piles of spent shells. In a normal country this place would be a scrap metal merchant’s dream, but here in Eritrea it remains as a symbol of pride and victory over Ethiopia – it was the longest African war of the 20th Century lasting for over 30 years it cost more than 65,000 lives. In 1993, 99.81% of the voters said ‘yes’ to independence and Eritrea became one of the youngest countries in Africa. But in late 1997, the two old rivals started squabbling again, first over Eritrea's rejection of the old Ethiopian birr in favour of its own new currency (the nakfa), then over bilateral trade relations, and finally and violently (in May 1998) over a ridiculously small piece of dirt on their common border called the Yirga Triangle. Fierce pride from both sides seems to be the problem. Eritrea and Ethiopia welcomed back the bad old days by proceeding to kill tens of thousands of each other's soldiers and civilians, with the grisly encouragement of such countries as Somalia and Djibouti. Now there’s a ceasefire but the formal demarcation of the border is still pending and things are tense. At the Lion Hotel we eagerly await travel permits. If we succeed
they will allow us to follow the Danakil coast, considered to
be one of the hottest places on earth. We are all on edge, if
we don’t succeed in getting permissions, the expedition
to track the outside edge of Africa will have failed – Hold
thumbs, we’ll keep you posted.
Across the Desert to Port Sudan: Our last dispatch from the Africa Outside Edge Expedition was that they had been turned away by the military from the Egyptian / Sudanese frontier on the Red Sea because of a border dispute – that meant a detour up the Nile and a 300 km ferry journey across Lake Nubia to Wadi Halfa in Africa’s largest country, the Sudan. Determined to get back to the Red Sea coast, Kingsley and his team were taking off on a dangerous 1000 km journey across the wild, waterless, trackless Nubian Desert, following a Garmin GPS line to Port Sudan. By BGAN satellite this dispatch is sent by the expedition, now almost one year old – best given to you in the Greybeards own scribbled words from the expedition journal.
If we’d known what we were in for we’d never attempted it. I guess it was a little foolish especially with our 7 year old little grandson Tristan Kingsley Holgate on board. Ross is the navigator, his is the biggest responsibility – eyes fixed to his Garmin GPS above the Land Rover dashboard trying to follow endless wadis (dry river beds) in the hope they will lead us through the rugged moonscape and steep razor back mountains that run in formidable ridges across the dunes and gravel plains of a desert seldom travelled. Most tracks across the Nubian Desert lead South, following the old British Kitchener railway line from Wadi Halfa to Khartoum and Omdurman at the confluence of the Blue and White Niles – a line that was built to relieve General Gordon of Khartoum who was besieged by the Mahdi, but too late...
Cook’s Traveller’s Handbook for Egypt & the
Sudan, published in 1929, had this to say about Gordon’s
defeat: The Dervishes rushed to the palace, where Gordon stood
on top of the steps…and in answer to his question, ‘Where
is your master, the Mahdi?’ their leader plunged a huge
spear into his body. He fell forward, was dragged down the steps,
and is head having been cut off was sent over to the Mahdi in
Omdurman. The fanatics then rushed forward and dipped their spears
and swords into his blood, and in a short time the body became
a heap of mangled flesh.’
Everybody is a bit glum. Directly ahead of us is a narrow gap in the mountains, a dry river bed, but it’s to the North the zigzagging searches for and the Egyptian border, not the way we want to go. “Let’s give it a go,” says Ross, forever the optimist. Okay, I nod, and the three Landies difflock in low ratio grind through the gap. There are some nomads with camels. I stop next to a woman wrapped in a shawl, she has a leathery face and a gold nose ring. “Port Sudan?” I ask pointing East. She shakes her head. “Suakin?” I then ask, using the name of the ancient Arab slave trading port that’s just South of Port Sudan. She nods vigorously and points up the river bed. “Shukran thank you.” The Garmin points North, totally the wrong direction. But then it slowly swings North by North East and finally due East as it narrows and becomes closed in by the hills. Is this another blind alley? And then we get the surprise of our lives. A small track, a recent cutting that leads us through the mountains. “Direction’s great,” comes Ross’ voice over the radio. We bounce along over the rocks ahead of us are a few buildings, water tanks and the sound of a generator. Hope it’s not military, we don’t want to get into shit and get turned back. But luck is on our side, it’s a gold exploration company. We’re offered ice cold drinks and our gerry cans are filled with drinking water. “Follow the track, just follow the track, you can be in Port Sudan in only two days.” What incredible luck. The gold exploration guys had cut the track through the mountain, but is wasn’t quite that easy – more lost trails and river beds, what a real slog through rough broken mountain country and desert scrub. That night tribesmen with long swords and huge woolly afro hairstyles pad silently on camels past our campfire. They raise a hand in greeting and then disappear into the night. “Woolly Heads,” whispers little Tristan, his imagination running wild. Later we dress Bruce in a Nubian galabyya and turban, panga in hand with a head torch lighting up his face. I shake the canvas of Tristan’s tent. “Woolly Heads, there are Woolly Heads in camp,” I whisper. Eyes wide, Tristan’s little face appears through the mosquito gauze as Bruce walks out of the bush shouting “Salam alekum!” Later on and for fear of nightmares we had to explain it was only Bruce and a practical joke. I’m sure the little fellow will never forget the Woolly Heads of Nubian.
Two days later the three battle-worn Land Rovers rumble into Port Sudan, established by the British in 1905 to facilitate the export of cattle, goats, camels, sesame cotton and sorghum. We grab a room in a run down hotel, but at least the beds are clean and there’s a shower – would kill for a beer, but no such luxury here, it’s illegal.
South of Port Sudan, the island of Suakin, is cloaked in myth and legend. Its name translates as ‘land of Ginn’. Apparently, Queen Balgies, of the Sabaa Kingdom of Yemen, sent seven virgin maidens to King Solomon in Jerusalem. On the way to the Holy City, however, a storm drove the ship off course to Suakin and, by the time it arrived in Jerusalem, all the girls were pregnant. They claimed they had sexual relations with the Ginn, a demon of Suakin. Whilst taking pictures of the area we are pounced on by the Sudanese military. Things get quite heated and we would have been in kak without Wimpy van der Vyver’s letter of introduction from the South African embassy in Khartoum. Our South African Department of Foreign Affairs have been incredibly supportive and have got us out of many a scrape. But as always it all ends well, this time with old Mr Mohamed, the curator of the ancient port endorsing our Mandela Scroll of Peace and Goodwill in Arabic – Eritrea here we come – we can smell home.
April 2008
Reaching Ancient Alexandria is a yardstick for the expedition Bustling Alexandria filled with some 4 million people is Egypt’s major port and one of the most historic cities on the entire coast of Africa. Established in 332 BC by Alexander the Great (he’s buried here), the city became a major trade centre and focal point of learning for the entire Mediterranean. Its ancient library held some 500 000 volumes and the Pharaohs lighthouse was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Driving the Landies into Alexandria – Well! That’s an adventure all of its own. Dodging old black and yellow Fiat taxis, horse drawn carriages and carts, donkeys and pedestrians. We’ve got used to driving on “the wrong side of the road” by now, have been doing so since Angola. With the steering on the right our passengers, in an act of survival have learnt to shout Go! or No! No! No! as the driver ducks out from behind an old dented Bedford carrying live camels to the meat market – it’s scary. The only way forward is to drive like an Egyptian, hand on the horn, foot on the accelerator, hesitate and you are pushed out of the traffic flow – it all adds to the adventure. Most Egyptians are polite and friendly and especially curious at the sight of three battered right hand drive South African registered Land Rovers running the 20 km long gauntlet of Alexandria’s crowded Mediterranean beachfront. Next morning at 11am we are ushered from our three Landies into the Governor of Alexandria’s palace where His Excellency welcomes us to his historic city. We receive wonderful gifts he endorses the Scroll of Peace and Goodwill in support of malaria prevention with these words: In the name of Allah, Alexandria Great Governorate was honoured to receive your wonderful group. Your model must be replicated in the whole world and not just in Africa as we are in need of such wonderful model which is preserving humanity and helps needy people.
With a team of journalists from South Africa we continue to dodge the traffic following the outside edge of Africa as we make our way to the ancient town of Rashid, also known by its former name of Rosetta. An old Ford swerves for a donkey cart and knocks a pedestrian flying, here old sixties American cars still serve as taxis ferrying passengers up and down the banks of the Nile. At the old French fort on the banks of the river we find the exact place where the Rosetta stone was unearthed by Napoleon’s soldiers in 1799. The basalt slab which dates from about 196 BC was inscribed in Egyptian hieroglyphs and ancient Egyptian and Greek. This combination of written languages enabled a Frenchman Jean-Francois Champollion to finally decipher the Pharaonic language, so opening a window on Egypt’s incredible past. To succeed in our journey to follow the coast of Africa we must now reach the Western mouth of the Nile where it runs into the Mediterranean. The tourism police are all overus, seems like it’s a sensitive military area. Then to make matters worse we bog one of the Land Rover down to the axels. But however difficult it’s like a dream come true – we pour out some water from the calabash carried all the way from the Cape of Good Hope and our journalist friends endorse the expedition scroll whilst sitting on the banks of the longest and most historic river in the world.
Turning the Landies South, we can smell home We follow the Mediterranean on the very edge of the Nile Delta – reed beds and a lake on which fishermen sail lateen rigged shallow draft falukas. The Nile is the life blood of Egypt. Palm trees and water buffalo in green fields, horse carts laden with vegetables, a rich harvest in the desert. We cross the second mouth of the Nile at Damietta and then a causeway linking blobs of land takes us into Port Said at the entrance of the Suez Canal. This is a great turning point for the expedition as for the first time we swing the Landies South down the East Coast of Africa. The spirits pick up – it’s as if we can smell home. On our left is the 163 kilometres long Suez Canal – opened in 1869 it remains one of the greatest feats of modern engineering linking the Mediterranean to the North of the Red Sea and severing Africa from Asia. Giant ocean going ships pass us like camels in the desert, and the sun sets over the Red Sea mountains as we park the expedition Landies next to the canal at Port Suez. Close to us is a monument covered in graffiti to Ferdinand De Lesseps – the French consul to Egypt who headed up this incredible Suez Canal project. From the Red Sea coast we will detour to Cairo – we need to apply for visas for the Sudan, Eritrea, Djibouti and beyond. Some say it’s not possible, too dangerous – we’ll just have to see how we go – we’ll keep you posted.
Travelling in three Land Rovers and inflatable boats the Africa Outside Edge Expedition was escorted from the Cape by 347 Land Rovers on the 27th April 2007, an amazing act of solidarity in the fight against malaria by Land Rover owners and expedition sponsors. Since then Kingsley Holgate and his adventurous team have given out tens of thousands of mosquito nets to pregnant mothers and to children under the age of five, spectacles to the poor sighted in remote villages and school books and learning materials to needy schools. The expedition is also carrying a Scroll of Peace and Goodwill in support of malaria prevention endorsed by Nobel Peace Prize laureates Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela. It is now also messaged by kings, governors, paramount chiefs, Ambassadors, presidents and village elders who live along the edge of Africa. The geographic challenge of the expedition is to track the outside edge of Africa, sticking wherever possible to the entire coast of the continent. Expedition leader Kingsley Holgate, known as the Greybeard of African adventure, much like the explorers of old he keeps a moleskin expedition journal. Imagine the scene – the expedition Land Rovers parked somewhere on the edge of Africa, camp chairs, kettle on the fire, a satellite dish on the bonnet of one of the Landies and a cable to a laptop as expedition member Annelie Muller types out this latest dispatch from the pages of Kingsley’s scribbled notes. Today’s story comes from Wadi Halfa in Sudan, the largest
country in Africa, from a remote port on the shores of Lake Nubia
where the damming of the Nile in Egypt has swallowed the Nile,
we hear a rumour that Mugabe has lost the election in Zimbabwe.
I wonder if it’s true. We are not supposed to be here but
after Egyptian military had turned us back from the Red Sea border
with Sudan we had no option but to head inland to Aswan on the
upper Nile and take a 300 km long ferry to Sudan. It’s been
a bloody nightmare. When it comes to bureaucracy and paperwork
the Egyptians seem to take the cake. I don’t know if the
Pharaohs invented all this need for paper, or maybe it was Alexander
the Great. I am sure that during the 70 odd years the British
were here that they too played a role. Anyway, the Egyptians have
mastered it. It takes us a tolerance testing three days of shuffling
paper to get on the passenger ferry, but the problem is that the
Land Rovers have to go on a hopelessly overloaded flat bottomed
antique barge aptly named The Aswan – Bloody scary, they
only just fit on and have to be roped down in case of a storm.
I chat to the captain. “Has there ever been any mishaps?”
I ask. “Oh yes,” he says. “A few years ago a
ferry boat caught on fire and more than 400 people drowned.”
I check the barge out. It’s got an ancient Marine diesel
engine that leaks oil and the bilge pump is already at work. The
wheel house is just a bench and a massive wheel that the skipper
steers with his feet. Chains and a cable run to the rudder. The
only lifeboat sits under a load of trade goods and there’s
no navigational equipment. it will be a miracle if our Landies
get to the other side. To much blowing of the ship’s horn we pull into the port
at Wadi Halfa. it is really just a couple of cement slipways that
angle into Lake Nubia plus an arrival hall and a customs shed.
Mr Haider is the Nubian clearing agent. He’s got a friendly
crinkled face and kind eyes beneath his immense snow white turban.
“Aah”, he says, “You are the people with the
three Land Rovers. Hopefully they will come tomorrow. We love
Land Rovers, the old ones opened the desert for us. That was the
time of the old Wadi Halfa before it was swallowed illegally by
the high water. The Egyptians call it Lake Nassar, but we call
it Lake Nubia. The old Wadi Halfa was a beautiful town on the
Nile – now it is under water. We got paid some compensation
but most ended up in the pockets of the government. When we last got a dispatch from Kingsley and his intrepid travellers, they were on tenterhooks sitting in Wadi Halfa in Northern Sudan waiting for their three expedition Land Rovers to arrive on an antique flat bottomed barge that was sailing through the night across Lake Nubia from Aswan in Egypt – herewith the latest from Kingsley’s Africa Outside Edge journal. Please – just five more minutes Halala! and al hamdullalah. We all leap up from our dusty breakfast
table in the market square in Wadi Halfa. We hug and shake hands
– our worst nightmare is over – the three Landies
have survived the 300km journey and the barge we hear has just
tied up down at the port. We grab our kit, jump in an old Series
II Landy taxi, pay our two Sudanese Pounds each and shoot across
a dusty plain down to the water’s edge. There they are –
still roped down onto the deck, South African flag decals on the
bonnets and all the kit still secure on the roofracks. The Egyptian
captain in his dirty overalls gives us a toothy grin. “We
came as quickly as we could through the night, there was a wind,
we had trouble with the engine and your Land Rovers, they are
heavy.” People swarm all over the barge unloading trade
goods from the hold. Its wild confusion and the police won’t
let us offload until we’ve got a paper from customs. Customs
won’t give us the paper until they can find old Mr Haider,
the clearing agent, who’s gone missing. “Just five
minutes, “ says the customs officer, squeezing all five
fingers of his right hand together in an upwards movement, that
in the Sudan, where you need patience as wide as the Nubian Desert
can mean anything from a day to a month. Two hours later we find
Mr Haider with his big white turban and his crinkley smile. “The
system,” he says, “not good. No electricity so computer
can’t print customs receipt – you wait just five minutes.”
I phone Mr Saleh, the ship’s agent in Aswan. “They
won’t let our vehicles off,” I explain – just
five minutes he says on the phone. The captain of the barge is
jumping up and down – want’s the land Rovers off so
that they can unload more goods from below. We go back to the
police – just five minutes they say. We find Mr Haider wondering
around the customs hall, smiling and shaking hand with all and
sundry – just five minutes he says, just five minutes. The
sun beats down mercilessly. The electricity is back on but the
computer man has gone with the key. He will be back in five minutes.
The Sudanese people are generally very kind and hospitable but
it’s a difficult country one of the world’s last wild
frontiers. It is no wonder that Sudanese Arabs are uncertain if,
as an age-old proverb reads, Allah laughed or cried when he created
the Sudan. He probably did both. Out of Wadi Halfa we follow the old 1890’s British railway line which General Kitchener’s forces laid at an astonishing half a kilometre rate per day. He was intent on getting across the Nubian Desert to Khartoum so as to wallop the Mahdi. We make camp in the Nubian Desert. Chicken on the coals, the stars overhead, feet in the sand, the warm desert wind, camp chairs in a semi circle, some Captain Morgan that’s been hidden in one of the bedrolls, the overwhelming sense of freedom. “Tristan, it’s time to go to bed – up you go, into the rooftent.” The little seven year old looks up at his dad, his cheeks full of sausage fat from where he’s been braaing his own meat on his own little fire. “Just five more minutes, please Dad,” as he puts the fingers of his little hand together in a typically Sudanese gesture. “Please, just five minutes.” Tomorrow we will attempt to cross the vast, waterless Nubian Desert, following a line on our Garmin GPS’s – it’s a somewhat dangerous thousand kilometre journey. If we make it, it will reconnect us to the Red Sea coast somewhere near Port Sudan so bringing to an end the long detour we’ve had to make around the Egyptian military area and the disputed section of the Egyptian Sudanese border. Sticking to the outside edge of Africa is sometimes a nightmare that takes a little longer than just five minutes – we’ll keep you posted. 31March 2008 Alive! - and crossing Nubian desert into the Sudan. Then it's the coast of Eritrea and then on to Djibouti where we've secured a ship to take us around the dangerous Horn of Africa. ETA for Mombassa remains Africa Malaria Day 25th April 2008. Teams of One Net One Life malaria volunteers are driving up to join the expedition on the East Coast. Cape of Good Hope end of expedition event is scheduled for 28th & 29th June 2008. Many challenges still ahead but it will all be wonderfully worthwhile
if we can complete this the longest and most exciting humanitarian
expedition ever to have left from the Cape of Good Hope March 2008
At it again, sometimes it seems like a never ending journey. Kingsley Holgate’s Outside Edge Expedition team is still travelling in three Land Rovers following the edge of North Africa. Owing to a tense security situation the latest news from the expedition has had to be made in a series of questions and answers whilst the expedition is on the move. Hi Kingsley, we were all a bit worried about you, did you survive Algeria? With difficulty. Fundamentalist groups in Algeria are targeting high profile foreigners and with our three very obvious expedition branded South African registered Land Rovers, we could have been a soft target. The security forces didn’t want any embarrassment and so we were very heavily protected. At times it was a bit scary – flat out in over loaded Landies through heavily populated areas, engines screaming, sirens going, flashing lights, on coming traffic being waved to the side of the road to let us through, flack jackets, radios and AK47’s. All this attention made us feel all the more vulnerable, but my concern was that with travelling at such break neck speed added to the risk of a serious accident. What was endearing however, is the wonderful friendliness of the Algerian people. Very few travellers like ourselves come this way and passing motorists would shout: Welcome to Algeria! And then we got an explanation for the latest high speed dash: Just 1 and ½ days ago three people had been gunned down in the area we had been travelling though and the military police wanted to move us through that district as quickly as possible. But the truth be told there are more murders in South Africa than there are in Algeria. Anyway we breathed a sigh of relief when we crossed the border over to Tunisia.
With all this tight security, were you still able to track the outside edge of Algeria and be able to remain true to your geographic and humanitarian objective? Absolutely. The Algerian coastline is unbelievably beautiful
and in parts it is like a continuous Chapman’s Peak Drive
with steep cliffs falling away into the Mediterranean and Cap
Carbon looking very much like our own Cape Point. Yes, it even
had baboons and was complete with lighthouse. But no tourists
other than our three Landies and posse of well-armed friendly
police. On the humanitarian side one of the greatest scoops of
the expedition was taking learning materials, South Africa 2010
World Cup branded soccer balls to children and Grindrod Right
to Sight spectacles to the poor sighted elderly in the Saharawi
refugee camps. This was the first time ever that a South African
one of the most humbling experiences of our odyssey. They are sometimes our biggest nightmare and a study in patience. Why on such a beautiful continent does one have to have such bureaucratic kak, made even more difficult in North Africa by tense security and political situations. No names no pack drill, but at one recent border post the police commissioner hoard us off into his office – smiles, handshakes and little glasses of sweet mint tea. We’d looked a bit travel worn and rumpled which led him to rub a stick of perfume on the backs of our hands. Mind you, we probably smelt a bit. There followed more small glasses of Arab tea and yet another slow page by page scrutinising of each passport with a furrowed brow, ash falling off the end of his cigarette and side whispers to customs and immigration men who would be called one at a time into his office for extra effect. “What you are, What you do, name of bank? Your mother name, your father name?” More tea, more offers of cigarettes more smiles of friendship, more whispers to his colleagues and then he invented a visa problem which he indicated in the most friendly manner, could be easily sorted out. Then came the bombshell. All he wanted was backsheesh – a bribe, a backhand, money. Mashozi looses her cool – next minute she’s got her cellphone out and has phoned the South African ambassador, albeit after midnight. “Do you want to speak to our Ambassador” she says handing the phone over to Mr Big. “Explain to him that you want money!” Mr Big backs off and we even get a police escort into town – but it is not always that easy and on the inside of my Land Rover sun visor I still make ticks for each lousy experience – bad roadblocks, stroppy cops, that sort of thing. We have to learn to laugh at it and go with the flow – its part of travelling in Africa. How is the team holding out? Everybody is dog tired and a bit Land Rovered out. We are about 300 days into the journey. What’s killed us is having been policed and controlled lately and each night we’re forced to stay in a hotel. We’ve been missing the freedom of camping and doing our own thing. What we’re really missing is a good old braai and some dop – even a slice of South African type bread would be a treat – not to mention rump steak, tjops, a curl of boerewors, biltong (wet and fatty), some Nando’s sauce, pouring a double Cappies, having mates around and throwing the odd bone to the dogs, wearing shorts and walking kaalvoet. I guess all we need is a day off.
Where are you now? Today is a great yardstick for the expedition – we’ve reached the most Northerly tip of the African continent. Danie Meyer, the South African ambassador to Tunisia and a group of VIP’s are here to meet us. Imagine the scene, the expedition team, warn out and rag tag from the tense journey across Algeria and the Tunisians all dressed in suites as they endorse the Peace and Goodwill scroll that we are carrying to the countries around the outside edge of Africa. It’s been messaged by presidents, kings, ambassadors, paramount chiefs, government ministers and by Nobel Peace Prize laureates Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela. If we survive this crazy journey to return to the Cape of Good Hope we would like to hand the scroll back to Mr. Mandela. To the flashing of media cameras we hand over a symbolic conservation stone carried all the way from Africa's most Southerly point and pick up one from here to be taken down to Cape Agulhas. We did the same thing when we reached the most Westerly point off Dakar, Senegal. We’ve survived Angola and the slow sweat of the Congo is behind us as are the equatorial forests, the Gulf of Guinea and a fascinating river boat journey down the Niger to mythical Timbuktu. Behind us is the death defying traffic of Lagos, the voodoo culture of Benin and Togo, war torn Liberia and Sierra Leone are distant memories. Guinea-Bissau, The Gambia and Senegal were great adventures as was Mauritania, despite the fact that a family of four adventurers were gunned down in cold blood, leading to the cancellation of the Lisbon – Dakar rally. The Moroccan Algeria border was closed even to a camel, we backtracked to Tangier, then by ferry over the Straights of Gibraltar to Algeciras in Spain. In a race against time, a dash up the Spanish coast to grab the night ferry back across the Mediterranean to Oran in Algeria. With security on board it was back to the other side of the frontier – all this effort and all this time, a detour by land and sea of close to 1500 kms for the sake of getting around a 100 metre wide border post. This is the nature of travelling Africa’s outside edge. 1 February 2008
“We’re still making our way up the coast of Morocco”, comes the latest news from Kingsley Holgate’s outside edge expedition received via BGAN satellite link from Tangier. “Its really a strange feeling being this close to Europe, the North Atlantic is now behind us and we’re at the mouth of the Mediterranean. Across the Straights is Gibraltar and from the harbour you can see the ferries coming and going. The journey up the coast from Casablanca has been a great outside edge experience. Sometimes with our Landies just a metre from the top of steep cliffs that plunge down into the ocean. Rabat, the capital, is a beautiful city, an old lighthouse on the jagged edge of Africa and a walled Kasbah that used to be a pirate stronghold. High on a hill overlooking the city we visited the remains of the Hassan tower that was destroyed in the earthquake of 1755. It was the Friday call to prayer and hundreds of pilgrims arrived to worship in the large open space dotted with the remains of old stone columns. Colourful royal guards on horseback man the entrances to the square and traditional water sellers in bright red costumes pose for pictures. Christiaan Bornman, our Arab speaking South African interpreter leads us up the steps to the mausoleum of Mohammed V and his son Hassan II. At the funeral of Hassan II an estimated 2 million Moroccans, many distraught with grief, flooded Rabat’s streets to say farewell to their king. We gaze down at his marble tomb in the knowledge that we’ve reached the heart of the kingdom. The road to Tangier hugs the Atlantic coast and parts of it remind us of South Africa’s Cape Peninsula. It’s an area that’s been heavily influenced by Spain and Portugal with most of the Moroccan ports having fallen to either Spanish or Portuguese forces at one time or another. The Landies growl on – it’s winter in Morocco and we’re all wrapped up in scarves, jackets, longs and boots. Behind us is the heat and humidity of West Africa and the Gulf of Guinea. Now it all seems strangely civilised as we cruise along the outside edge and strangely emotional as we stop at Cape Spartel for a team shot. It’s nine months ago that 347 Land Rovers escorted us out of the Cape of Good Hope, the most South Westerly point of the continent, and now we’re at this, the most North Westerly Cape. Outside the Cape Spartel lighthouse we hold up the Zulu calabash that’s carrying cold South Atlantic water from the Cape of Good Hope. If we’re successful, we’ll return to empty it back at the Cape of Good Hope, but that’s still several months and 13 countries away.
Reaching Tangier has always been a yardstick for the expedition and we’re all chuffed to be here. The port city has a wonderfully colourful history. By the signing of the Treaty of Fez in 1912 Tangier became virtually an international zone and after World War I another statute handed Tangier to the victors of World War I – Spain, Britain, France, Portugal, Holland, Belgium, Italy and Sweden. It became a duty free port and an international zone and for the 33 years that followed, a centre for unregulated financial services, prostitution, smuggling and espionage. It was also a great favourite with artists, poets, hippies, bohemians, musicians and authors, prompting Kenneth Allsop of the London Daily Mail to write these words in 1959: The indigenous Tangier aroma compounded of flowers, spices, hashish and Arab drains, is infiltrated by the smell of typewriter ribbons from the overheated portables of best selling London and New York novelists. Barbara Hutton, the Woolworths heiress, had a house in Tangier and was famous for her notorious parties. She even had certain streets in the Kasbah widened to accommodate her Rolls Royce. Her parties included Flamenco singers and belly dancers and even tribes people on camels carrying loaded rifles to perform their ceremonial dances. The late American billionaire, publisher and Arabist, Malcolm Forbs had a house in Tangier in which he held his much-publicised 70th birthday bash in 1989, an event that cost 2 million dollars and included entertainment by 600 drummers, belly dancers, acrobats and 300 Berber horsemen. Guests included Elizabeth Taylor, Henry Kissinger and the Getty’s. We take digs in the downtown Holland Hotel – a bit ropey but safe parking for the Landies and a short walk from the Kasbah. There’s still an English church in Tangier and Mustafa, the caretaker, who’s been there for over 30 years, points out the grave of David Herbert whose tombstone reads: Born 3rd October 1908 – Died 3rd April 1995 – He loved Morocco. Muriel Louisa Phillips’ tombstone simply reads: Artist, painter, friend. Walter Harris, correspondent for The Times, died here April 4, 1933. He loved the Moorish people and was their friend, is written on his tombstone. The honourable Sir Reginald Lister died at his post of malarial fever on November 10, 1912 aged 47 years. There’s still a service on a Sunday although the numbers have dwindled and the white flag with the red cross of St Andrews still flies above the church. Now outside the gate Berber women in big straw hats sell homemade cheese, loaves of circular bread and fresh herbs. Chico, an illegal guide, takes us through the Kasbah. We’re trying to find the key for the tomb of one of Arica’s greatest travellers, Ibn Battouta. For me it’s a bit of a pilgrimage – I want to pay my respects to one of the greatest Arab geographers and travellers of all times. Born in tangier in 1304, he set off on a pilgrimage to Mecca but his intended trip of around six months became a 29 year journey in which he vowed never to travel the same route twice. His incredible journeys took him East to India and China, across the Sahara desert to Mali and Niger, and down the coast of East Africa to Somalia and to what is now Kenya and Tanzania. We finally gain access to his tomb which is only about 1.5 metres long and draped in green cloth. This was a man who talked about snow capped mountains on Africa’s equator and the mountains of the moon long before the European Victorian explorers like Burton, Livingstone and Stanley ever ventured into Africa. Back in Morocco in 1344 Ibn Battouta related his adventures to the Sultan of Morocco and was asked to dictate an account of his journeys to a young scribe called Ibn Juzayy in a book that was called El Rihla (The Travels) and was used as a guidebook by other travellers. We pay some money to the key lady and make our way through the narrow streets of the Kasbah to the palace at the top of the hill where snake charmers perform for us pulling frighteningly big shiny black cobras from a wooden box. Massive old Portuguese naval guns point across the straights to Gibraltar and to the right is the house Matisse, the famous painter, lived in. At Café Baba the coffee is strong enough to stand your teaspoon up in. This was an old hippie hangout in the 60’s and there’s a black and white picture of Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones dressed in a hairy sheepskin jacket and pulling on a long-stemmed hashish pipe. Chico, the guide looks out across the sweep of the half moon beach. “In the old days there were just a few beach bars and hardly a light at night, now it’s just a mass of modern hotels and apartments, many owned by Arabs from the oil rich states and tourists from Europe, the old Tangier is over but a new era of tourism seems to be taking over.” Tomorrow we leave Tangier to follow the outline of Africa after so many months of travelling North up the West Coast and then West around the big bulge of the continent, it’s going to feel really strange to turn the noses of the Landies East along the Mediterranean coast, direction Algeria. We’ll keep you posted.
A dispatch from Morocco
Seven days and big bucks to do just a 100 metres We’re stopped at the boom, Moroccan police, customs and plain clothed security all gather around the three Land Rovers, no photos, strict security, a big military fort flying the red Moroccan flag high on a nearby hill. “It’s the Algerians, they closed the border,” say the Moroccans shaking their heads dismally. “Not good country, dangerous,” says a man with a clipped moustache. There’s a big ginger cat biting its way into a black garbage bag. The boom is closed and the whole place has got a sorry air of neglect. The Moroccans are concerned about al-Quida terrorist groups crossing into their country and for a long time there’s been a dispute with Algeria over their backing of the Polisario movement in Moroccan occupied Western Sahara. It’s a blow – we’d hoped for a miracle. Now we’ll have to return to Tangier, put the Landies and ourselves on a ferry across the Straights of Gibraltar to Spain, then follow the coast of Spain for 700km to take another ferry from Alicante across the Mediterranean to Oran in Algeria before back-tracking to the other side of the boom where we now stand – seven days and a massive dent in the budget to do just 100 metres of the outside edge.
The ancient walled city of Fez Slowly we turn the three Landies around. Instead of moaning we decide to make the most of it. We’ll backtrack to Tangier via ancient Fez. We find cheap rooms on the third floor of the Hotel de la Paix on the broad palm tree lined Hassan II Boulevard. Mohammed the car guard assures us that “inshallah”, for a fee, the Landies will be safe on the crowded street. Mohammed the receptionist speaks a bit of English and throws breakfast into the room rate. Mohammed the porter points to the antique lift. “Be careful,” he says, “it only takes two people.” But the rooms are clean and much to Mashozi and Annelie’s delight there are baths and hot water. Next morning we stand on a hill overlooking the ancient walled medina of Fez where through our Teaching on the Edge programme supported by 600 South African school children we hand over soccer balls, books, pens, rulers, crayons, colouring in books and spectacles for the poor sighted to a community from the High Atlas mountains. The call to prayer from scores of mosques rises up to meet us as does the sounds of the thousands of people who live in a maize of alleyways, madras’s, markets and mosques that make up what is believed to be the most complete example of medieval Islamic civilisation in the world today. Through the keyhole arch of Bab Boujeloud, one of the main entrances to the medina and we’re into a world that Salim, our guide, tells us, has 970 streets, 344 quarters, 470 mosques, 376 acres enclosed in 14kms of wall, 8 gates, 350 000 people and foundations that date back to the year 789. It’s mysterious and exotic and for all the friendliness of the people to us strangers, it still feels a hidden place, a chipped and battered, North African jewel.
Crafts and trades of the medina have remained almost unchanged for a thousand years. We are given sprigs of mint to stick up our noses to help against the stink of fresh animal hides, steeped in urine to make them supple. Men crouch and balance over stone vats as they dip and soak the hides in natural dyes, roofs and walls are thick with drying skins. It’s back-breaking work that is handed down from father to son and the souks are full of the finished products – bags, jackets, wallets and belts. At one time whole libraries were sent to Morocco to be “Morocco bound” and tooled with gold. Tinsmiths, carpenters, gold and silver jewellery makers, painted doors, stone masons, carpet makers, butchers, grocers, nougat sellers, olives, spices, necklaces of dried figs bakeries, restaurants, coffee shops, tea houses and live chicken sellers are just some of the activities, sights and sounds that assail the senses in ancient Fez. It’s Saturday night, we’re footsore and desperate for a grog – not always an easy thing to find in Islamic North Africa where boozing is generally frowned upon and in some cases totally outlawed. Saturday Night in Fez We go underground, down the steps, into the dimly lit Nautilus Bar. “Music American”, says the barman with a grin as Hotel California blares from two little speakers that are placed either side of bottles of gin, whiskey, brandy and pernod. Sadly there is no Captain Morgan, so we go for West African brewed Flag beer. A couple cuddle on a couch and at a table in a corner a group of moustached middle-aged men with their girls drink up a storm. Moroccans smoke with a passion and everybody puffs away to the sounds of Elton John and then WHAM belting out the hit Faith. There’s a jolly buzz and peels of laughter as at the corner table a large-busted girl’s chair collapses leaving her spread eagled on the floor looking up with a bemused grin at the circle of moustached men who leap up to take pictures of her on their mobile phones. In comes the banjo player and the music is turned down. Soon everybody is clapping and dancing. Plates of artichokes and peeled radishes are offered as snacks. Midnight and a frightening bar bill chases us off to bed. I wake up fully clothed.
Volubilis It sounds like I feel, even with the help of three disprins and
a few cups of coffee. We’re still heading for the Tangier
ferry and have stopped off at the ancient Roman ruins of Volubilis
which in AD 45 was the empire’s most remote base. By the
end of the 3rd Century the Romans had gone but Volubilis maintained
its Latinised structure and when the Arabs arrived in the 7th
Century the mixed population of Berbers, Jews and Syrians still
spoke Latin. Much later, in the 18th Century, Moulay Ismail, the
Islamic leader desecrated Volubilis by removing most of its marble
to adorn his palaces in nearby Meknes. The Lisbon earthquake in
1755 damaged the city and it fell into ruin and it only came to
the attention of the outside world again when two foreign diplomats
stumbled upon it at the end of the 19th Century. Our guide is
Khalid of Nazareth. His father had worked as a cook for the resident
French archaeologist from 1933 to 1976. “I used to help
my dad in the kitchen,” says Khalid, “and got to know
the visiting students, learnt some English and qualified as a
guide. When I was 14, I was an actor in the movie Jesus of Nazareth,
filmed at my village nearby. I was in the stable with Joseph and
I made enough money out of the movie to buy my mother a house
and some olive trees. That’s why they still call me Khalid
of Nazareth”. And so with Khalid we explore ancient Volubilis.
From the Tangier gate down the broad Decumanus Maximus carriage
way to the Triumphant Arch. What a grand lifestyle these ancient
Romans must have lived. Lavish public baths that provided a meeting
place, to chat, do business, exercise, eat and drink, and grand
houses with elaborate heating systems providing hot water and
steam for baths and heat. The mosaics on the floor of these vast
houses are still in excellent condition. There’s Bacchus,
the god of wine in a chariot being pulled by panthers. The house
of Venus has a stunning mosaic of Hylas being abducted by nymphs
and the bathing Diana being surprised by Acteon. It boggles the
mind – there’s Dionysos discovering the sleeping Ariaden,
Orpheus, the god of music, charming wild animals with the playing
of his lyre. There’s a mosaic of nine dolphins believed
by the Romans to bring good luck and Amphitrite is in a chariot
being pulled by a seahorse.
4 February, 2008 When we last heard from Kingsley Holgate’s Outside Edge Expedition they had reached Algeria and were travelling in an armoured convoy into the Sahara to do much needed humanitarian work in the Saharawi refugee camps. It’s a story best told from the scribbled pages of the expedition journal.
Filling in the puzzle Some weeks ago when we had journeyed up the coast of Western Sahara, a country wedged between Mauritania in the South and Morocco in the North, located exactly where the name says it should be – on the Western edge of the Sahara – it had been impossible for us to properly meet the legitimate citizens of the land, they are a proud people called the Saharawi’s. Now thanks to the efforts of our Department of Foreign Affairs and an invitation from the Saharan Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) in exile in the South of Algeria, the three expedition Landies are loaded up with soccer balls, learning materials and spectacles for the poor sighted. Adrenalin pumps as in a heavily armed convoy (there has been a recent upsurge of terrorism activity in Algeria and the authorities don’t want us killed) we head off at break neck speed in a 3000 km there and back dash – it’s not only an opportunity for us to fill in another puzzle of the outside edge of Africa but also an opportunity to improve and save lives through adventure.
Western Sahara Western Sahara was a Spanish colony for over one century. In
the early 1970s the Saharawis began to resist Spanish colonialism
and formed the Polisario liberation movement which in 1975 was
on the verge of gaining independence from Spain. Then, in secret
negotiations, Spain signed a clandestine deal with Morocco and
Mauritania, splitting Western Sahara between Morocco and Mauritania,
instead of granting independence to the Saharawis as promised.
Morocco and Mauritania thought they would clobber the nomadic
Saharawis and the whole thing would be over in a couple of weeks.
But they hadn’t banked on the tough fighting spirit of the
Saharawi men in the small Polisario army who, in their old battered
Landies knew the Western Sahara like the backs of their hands.
The outcome was a terrible guerrilla war that lasted for over
sixteen years. We gave them a bloody nose Our three battered South African registered Landies pull into the mud houses and tent camps. This is the most inhospitable part of the Sahara that we’ve ever seen but the people are full of pride and passion and are longing to get back their land. Our interpreter’s name is Hamadi Bachir. “Every family has a martyr”, he says. “I lost four of my family in the war.” Ammi Bol-la, who has travelling with the convoy from Oran, says: “I will rather die than live under the Moroccans. When Morocco and Mauritania invaded us they thought we were just a bunch of desert nomads and that the war would be over in a couple of weeks but we fought them for over ten years and by the time of the UN brokered cease fire we’d given them a bloody nose. Our advantage was that we knew the desert like the back of our hands. We were known as the nomads of the clouds, forever wandering with our livestock in search of water.”
The refugee camps A bone jarring, teeth loosening corrugated track takes us through the camp to a local school where we give out piles of learning materials and best of all for the kids, footballs that are stamped: 2010 World Cup, South Africa. At the hospital we distribute spectacles to the poor sighted. Over 80% of the population of the refugee camps are women and children. That night we meet the 27th February women’s group, a title which commemorates the day the Saharawi Democratic Republic was founded in 1976. It’s the women that are the backbone of life in the camps, against unbelievable odds these women, many of whom have lost their husbands and sons in the war, have continued to build a nation and organize education, health and hygiene. We sit cross-legged on hand woven carpets in a high walled, peak roofed tent. Dinner is couscous and camel. Outside there’s a sandstorm. The brave matrons share some of their stories with us. The long walk across the desert to Algeria, sharing whatever food and water they could find, making fires and raking the hot coals into small depressions in the sand so as to make a warm bed for the tiny babies. The stories of their flight and the hard life in the refugee camps are written in deep etched lines on their olive brown faces. Even though they have very little their hospitality is boundless and they pamper us, even giving us trinkets and desert robes to wear.
Longer than the Great Wall of China It’s a great travesty of justice – a nation in exile with the Moroccans now having built a sand berm longer than the Great Wall of China, armed with 5 million landmines and over 150 000 troops, so keeping the Saharawi’s out. There’s a concert in our honour, dancers are draped in Saharawi flags, the audience stands and waves peace signs in the air – all they want is to have their country back and South Africa is supporting a UN initiative for a free and fair referendum. The president of this little country in exile, Mr Mohamed Abdelaziz, endorses the expedition Scroll of Peace and Goodwill with these words: “I warmly welcome these great adventurers of our dear sister South Africa. We in the Saharawi Republic salute and commend this initiative that promotes peace on the continent and helps to eradicate disease... With your great journey you have united the sons of our continent, and shortened the distance – please continue this great effort.”
Across the Meridian line And so we turn the Landies around, the Algerian military police meet us outside the town of Tindouf, district by district groups of armed men and vehicles escort us back to Oran. Travelling East across the Greenwich Meridian we make our way along the coast to Algiers. The truth be told, we are dog tired and all the security makes us edgy. The good thing however is that despite the current terrorism threats the Algerian people are superbly friendly, especially when they hear that we are from Janub Afrigia - that’s sort of how you pronounce South Africa in Arabic – we’ll keep you posted. 6 February, 2008 It’s a dark 5 am in the morning and the Moroccan customs are a bit edgy. The Rif area of Morocco grows one of the worlds largest hashish crops and Tangier is renowned as a smuggling port. An icy cold wind blows across the Mediterranean. The three South African registered Landies nicknamed John Ross (after the little shipwrecked fellow who had been led by Shaka Zulu’s Impi to Delagoa Bay in search of help), this one obviously driven by Ross Holgate; the Landie Mary Kingsley (she was a great Victorian lady explorer who single handed explored the rivers of West Africa), this one driven by Kingsley, the Greybeard and Mashozi; and Lady Baker (the great woman explorer who was freed from slavery by the explorer Sir Samuel Baker who she accompanied up the River Nile to Lake Albert) were all lashed down onto the bottom deck whilst the expedition team rams coffee and ham sarmies on the top deck. How ridiculous, here we are prisoners of North African politics, having to detour through Spain so as to get to Algeria – it plays hell on our bloody budget, but at least we get to visit the Rock of Gibraltar where under a Union Jack with a Battle of Trafalgar billboard on the wall we’re served big glasses of pale ale and plates of fish and chips at the Lord Nelson pub. We ask ourselves – what the hell are we doing in this little British outpost when we’re supposed to be circumnavigating Africa? – But that’s the Zen of travel and you have to roll with the punches.
9 February, 2008 We’re on the night ferry from Alicante in Spain to Oran in Algeria. People on foot trading with bundles and bags, second hand shoes, babies feeding bottles, cartons of cigarettes, nappies, toilet paper, blankets and mattresses. Those with vehicles have loaded fridges, washing machines, bicycles, furniture and TV sets. Others were trading in brand new cars. Some had cabins, some slept on the decks – the weather was bad and the toilets overflowed. We stole into the Algerian Port of Oran at sunrise. It was a customs and immigration nightmare. Vehicles being stripped and searched – there’s a terrorist scare on the go and a travel warning. Several bombs have gone off recently and the UN Headquarters in Algiers had been targeted. We are nervous as all hell. But what a welcome. Aah! Afrique du Sud – South Africans – you are most welcome. There’s security everywhere – flack jackets and automatic weapons, an Algerian security lady – she’s pretty and speaks English, explains: “You’ll need security wherever you go. Foreign visitors are not allowed to move without it.” The boom goes up and we follow the flashing lights of a police escort – one in front of our three Landies and another guarding the rear. Sirens screaming we zigzag through the streets of Oran. Plain clothed men usher us into a parking garage. The gates closed behind us with a clang. Then it’s through a side door with our bags. Djamal the manager of the Hotel Adef speaks delightful English. “Welcome to Oran, we haven’t seen tourists for years. We hand over our passports – mothers name, fathers name, date of birth, passport issued when and where, and what your occupation. Djamal in his mustard coloured jacket grins broadly. We have a restaurant, we have a bar, we have room service, we have the best nightclub in town. Mashozi and you Papa King – we’re giving you the biggest room in the hotel with a view of the sea. We pull back the curtains to reveal a grain silo, a scrap metal loading dock, hundreds of shipping containers of different colours, a tall brick chimney, the ferry that’s just brought us from Spain and beyond that the Mediterranean. We bang on the gurgling water pipes and run the tap. Finally there’s the hissing of steam and hot water. We are the only people in the dining room, the staff are delightful – Welcome to Oran.
11 February 2008 Western Sahara was a Spanish colony for over one century. In the early 1970s the Saharawis began to organize against Spanish colonialism and formed the Polisario liberation movement. In 1975 the Polisario was on the verge of gaining independence from Spain. Then, in secret negotiations, Spain signed a clandestine deal with Morocco and Mauritania. The three countries agreed to split the territory of Western Sahara between Morocco and Mauritania, instead of granting independence to the Saharawis as promised. This illegal annexation of Western Sahara in 1975 was the start of the war with Morocco and Mauritania. Tens of thousands of Saharawis fled their homes in Western Sahara as Morocco dropped American napalm and phosphorous bombs on civilians. Facing aggression from countries both north and south, the fleeing Saharawis turned east, to Algeria. There, they were granted asylum and began to build refugee camps in an area of the desert considered uninhabitable. It’s a place where temperatures reach a scorching 135 F in summer and plunge below freezing in winter. Sandstorms, called siroccos, rip through the refugee camps without warning. Flash floods wipe out entire tent neighbourhoods, destroying everything in their path. Here, in the southwest corner of Algeria, nearly 200,000 refugees are struggling to survive in this inhospitable part of the great Sahara Desert. Some weeks ago when we had journeyed up the coast of Western Sahara, it had been impossible for us to properly meet the legitimate citizens of the country. Now thanks to the efforts of our Department of Foreign Affairs and invitation from the Saharan Arab Democratic Republic (SADR) in exile in the South of Algeria, we find ourselves loaded up with soccer balls, learning materials and spectacles for the poor sighted as in a heavily armed escort (there has been a recent upsurge of terrorism activity in Algeria and the authorities don’t want us killed) we head off at break neck speed in a 3000 km there and back dash – an opportunity for us to fill in the puzzle, all part of our crazy journey to improve and save lives through adventure – we’ll keep you posted. 29/01/2008 A boerseun from Casablanca Greetings from Casablanca, are the words that head up Kingsley Holgate’s latest expedition despatch from Morocco. Casablanca – what a romantic name, scribbles Kingsley, though nothing like its sin city image in the classical Hollywood movie that appropriated its name, Casablanca is an exciting metropolis. Its streets are choked with traffic and noise with an unofficial population estimate of over 5 million people making it one of the largest cities on the African coast. Despite the modern high rise buildings and billboards it is also a city with extensive poor areas called “bidonvilles” (shanty towns) many of which are hidden behind high walls, known to the locals as walls of shame. We park the three Landies on the pavement outside the old Casablanca Hotel and that’s where we get the good news, one of our humanitarian sponsors, British Airways, is going to fly us home for a short break. We can’t believe our luck. Early next morning we leave the Land Rovers with Land Rover Morocco for servicing and Charl Möller, the acting South African ambassador from Rabat, whisks us through the diplomatic gate at the airport and hey presto next moment we’re having bacon and eggs at Heathrow and then on a plane home. What a treat – we haven’t seen families or friends for months, not to mention boerewors and braai, hot showers and a soft bed - all without having to put up a tent or light a fire – bloody luxury. At home we listen in amazement to fellow South Africans complaining about high prices, the electricity crisis and how tough things are in South Africa. “Hey guys, when you’ve travelled from Cape Town to Casablanca through 21 African countries, you’ll appreciate what a paradise we live in and just how lucky most of us are. Our biggest challenge is to sort out the crime. We’ve got a great country.” And so it’s difficult for the expedition team to pull themselves away and head back to Casablanca – British Airways we can’t thank you enough, you’ve given us enough heart to continue with this challenging humanitarian adventure. To meet us at the airport is the newly appointed South African ambassador to Morocco, Mr. Seleka. With him are Charl Möller and our new Moroccan expedition interpreter and expedition member – can you believe it, he’s a young 20 year old boerseun from Pretoria who speaks excellent Moroccan Arabic. Smiling, round faced Christiaan Bornman greets us with a big grin and an Arab handshake to the chest. “Howzit you okes, welcome back to Casablanca.” Christiaan, with his family, has been in Morocco for seven years doing valuable humanitarian community work with the Berber people in the High Atlas Mountains. He was home schooled and in the taxi tells us that he learnt derija, the local Arabic dialect, on the streets of the medieval walled city of Fez. With him is a big tub of tuisgebakte boerebeskuit and in our bags, now safely through customs, some biltong, the odd bottle of Captain and a giant bag of spectacles which is part of our Grindrod supported Right to Sight campaign in which poor sighted people in remote areas receive ready readers. We struggle to get the Landies out of Land Rover Morocco’s crowded car park. It’s full of Supercharged Range Rover Sports’ and the latest in big high speed BMWs. “Can’t cope, business is booming,” says the manager. “A lot of it is dirty money from the drug lords in the North and they need fast get-away cars. You must be careful in the North, people will try to sell you hashish and the police jump at the chance to imprison naïve foreigners.” Christiaan our interpreter tells us that it’s a big problem here and that the Rif Mountains in the North of Morocco are internationally associated with the massive cultivation of hashish. Although theoretically illegal in Morocco, the Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla, have not criminalised “kif” and trade is brisk and expanding, it’s a hidden export industry with an estimated value of more than 500 million USD and an European street value of ten times higher. Back in the Landies we cruise Casablanca’s playground,
the beachfront Corniche of Ain Diab, famous for its restaurants
and nightclubs at the western limit of which is a small rocky
outcrop called Sidi Abderahmen, a picturesque cluster of white
tombs and little rabbit warren houses accessed by pilgrims at
low tide. We take off our shoes and wade across. It’s a
place of the occult where people speak in whispers and burn incense
and herbs to cure illness and sickness. A lady arrives wearing
a smart coat and dark glasses. She seems harassed, money changes
hands and a moustached man smoking a long-stemmed hashish pipe
sacrifices a black fowl with a single swipe of a sharp knife.
Still flapping its wings the fowl is thrown over the edge of the
rocks and without looking back she walks down the steps and is
pulled through the shallows to the mainland in a big tractor tube.
Next in line is a beautiful girl dressed in the very best of designer
clothes. I wonder what she’s come for. Christiaan, the boerseun
from Pretoria, is a wealth of information. Young girls who are
having difficulty in falling pregnant come here, he says. They
stand naked in the Atlantic and let seven waves crash against
their bodies. A lady with kind eyes and beautiful smooth brown
skin paints henna designs onto Annelie’s hand and around
Mashozi’s ankle. The wind blows cold from Europe. The magnificent building, complete with library, museum, steam
baths and conference facilities was designed by French architect
Michael Pinseau and financed by voluntary subscriptions. Built
on the sea bed with water on three sides, it complies with a Koranic
saying “Allah has his throne on the water.” Thousands
of craftsmen used Moroccan materials – cedar wood from the
Middle Atlas and marble from Agadir and Tafraoute. The cost of
more than US$750 million was met by various means. Special officials
collected contributions from every home in the land, and some
employers deducted a percentage from their workers’ wages.
The late king’s highest officials are said to have fallen
over themselves to be generous. The prayer hall, with an electricity
operated sunroof over the central court, has space for 20,000
worshipers while another 80,000 can pray on the surrounding esplanade.
The marble minaret is 25 metres square and 175 metres high, making
it the tallest religious building in the world beating the Great
Pyramid of Cheops by 30 metres and St Peter’s by 40 metres.
It took 35,000 workers 50 million man-hours to complete. Visible
for hundreds of kilometres out to sea, this is the largest mosque
outside Medina and Mecca. A 32km visible laser beam points, like
a giant finger, from the top of the minaret towards Mecca. Into
the expedition journal I scribble: 750 million USD, that’s
a load of money for a country that has so much poverty, but then
again it’s brought a lot of pride to the nation. I guess
it’s like the World Cup coming to South Africa and all the
money that needs to be spent. Our Archived Adventure Diaries for 2007 4/12/2007 -
Conakry On The Coast Of Guinea
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