ONCE UPON A TIME, many many years ago, a young Brummie's thoughts turned to holidays. Ones that were a bit more exotic than Bournemouth and Pembrokeshire that had been the destinations of his youth. His imagination was boundless. However, the pennies that trickled from his job with Birmingham City Council were but only the merest jingle in his wallet. The world was his oyster but the financial knife with which to pry the pearls was insubstantial.
For reasons lost in the mists of antiquity, Morocco was the first chosen destination. A Ford Transit was met in the depths of London's Kangaroo Valley and the very mixed bunch headed - pell mell - across the channel on route to the Straights of Gibraltar. So it was in the company of strangers that he crossed into the culture shock of the dark continent for the first time. Tents were set up close to many of the major towns. Fez with its maze of old town streets cascading down its valley terminating in the olfactory challenge that was the tannery. Dozens of round open pits, filled with lavatorial waste and skins of ex-camels et al and churned by the rhythmic plod of the workers. Rabat contrasted with a the cool simplicity of the former King's mausoleum - pure white marble inscribed with serpentine Arabic script and dominated by an old minaret with mirror images in both Marrakesh (the minaret of the Al Koutoubia Mosque) and Seville (the Cathedral's bell tower) and Tangier - the quintessential tourist trap fed by tourists' (he was already ensnared by the snobbish conjugation that says "I am a 'traveler', they are 'tourists'") day trips from Spain and a steady stream of cruise ships.
BUT, the jewel in the crown was Marrakesh. The city bounded by mud-baked terracotta (before it was fashionable) colored walls and a background snow-capped heights of the High Atlas mountains to the south. From the first wanderings through the alleys of the souk he was captivated - the multi-media extravaganzas of sun slatting into alleys through dripping skeins of multi-coloured drying wool, the clip-clop of four-legged toast racks pulling tatty carriages, the quiet sipping of hospitable mint tea in the back of a carpet shop, stalls with Everest piles of exotic spices and the bustle of locals going about their day to day business - not noticing the exotic world they inhabited. Afternoons were spent on the roof of the Café de France overlooking the Djemaa El-Fna [The Square of the Dead] watching the locals going about their routine life: buying spices, having the hair cut, the tinkle of the water seller's bell, walking with a skwarking chuck under their arm or catching up on the local gossip. As the sun set the Square was highlighted by lamps from the stalls and turned into the local entertainment centre - snake charmers, story tellers and acrobats all supported by the wafts from the braziers cooking who knows what.
Ah - but his real undoing was talking to people in the campsite who were traveling on big 3 ton trucks. They were the elite - the Trans-Africa overlanders. They were either going to or coming back from Nairobi and points South. This must be real traveling and so the seed was sown where it lay dormant during the year in which he visited bits of Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. Then one day he propositioned his employer and was given 2 months unpaid leave of absence to add to his normal holiday.
And so off he trucked to adventures in the heart of Africa - the sand of Sahara, the mud of the Congo, pygmies & Okapi in the rain forest and lava flows from the Mountains of the Moon. These adventures and trial are for another place - suffice to say that he had to leave before the end of the journey through lack of time. However, this meant that he had to miss East Africa and its National Parks - and a vow was made to return at some time to see what he had missed.
Many many moons later [after off-shore sailing had distracted him for a while], he returned to Africa to feed his latent addiction. It wasn't to be East but some of the southern countries that provided his first fix. Zimbabwe and Botswana were visited in the capable hands of Alan from Nomad African Travel.
In following years he returned with Alan to revisit Botswana and add Namibia to the list. A number of subsequent visits were made to the region and one to East Africa. But one of the most important events took place over a late night drink during a visit to Kafunta Lodge on the banks of the Luangwa River. This excellent establishment is presided over by Anke and Ron (with the invaluable assistance of their son, Luke was a todler at the time but definitely "in charge") and over a late night drink on the terrace watching flitting Pennant Winged Nightjars they described their journey from Europe to Africa. It was Aussie Ron who suggested to him that he ought to think about getting a Land Rover and spend some time traveling around Africa. And so the though was implanted.
For once, things came together - the inclination and the opportunity. An reorganisation at work - (West Midlands Police Authority) led to an offer of very early retirement which together with an inheritance laid the foundation for the trips - both time and money.
After reading many books and speaking to many experts, many options were identified. Slowly, a cunning plan evolved. Buy a Land Rover Discovery (it's just as capable of the more macho Defender and a lot more comfortable) and ship it out to Cape Town for the start of four months travel up as far as Livingstone where Oriel and Alan who run Nomad African Travel kindly agreed to let me store the Discovery until he returned. The long term plan being to travel, in easy stages, towards Ethiopia - after that the plans became a bit vague.
Big Ron at Rovamania found a decent 200 model and expertly undertook some of the mechanical work. The more specialised work and advice was provided by Paul at Footloose 4x4 in Peterborough. Paul, a South African, and was a font of knowledge on both the areas to be visited and a mine of suggestions on what to do to the Dicso to prepare it for Africa.
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