Lies, laziness, incompetence, thievery and corruption

As I write this, I’m camping under the stars near the skeleton coast, drinking a beer with good friends around a fire. Life couldn’t be much better. And yet, when I hark back to the day we got Chopper out of Libreville port I can’t stop the wave of anger that washes over me.

Lets rewind a couple of weeks and start at the beginning. Due to the RAC's ineptitude I hadn’t been able to bring the carnet (car document) out with me so was prepared to accept we might have to wait for Daisy to arrive to get the chopper out of the port. Combined with Gabon’s four day independence holiday, it was definitely Monday earliest. That would make it a mere 4 days behind schedule. As you can imagine, we were not happy when we got to the Getma office (shipping agency) on Monday to be very matter of factly told that the boat hadn’t yet arrived. This of course was not Getma or Grimaldi’s (shipping line) fault, but was a blameless result of the 4 day holiday. Completely understandable of course that they hadn’t seen that coming....Gabon has after all only been celebrating independence like clockwork for the last 53 years.

Anyway, not ones to cry over spilt milk we decided that we’d head south to Loango national park for the week. Despite Getma’s ETA of Thursday/Friday, and Grimaldi’s London office ETA of Saturday we thought we’d give them some wiggle room and turned up on Monday. Was our car available? Of course it bloody wasn’t. And who can blame them? Why should a shipping agency have any idea when the boats they unload will arrive? And if you were in the business of driving boats around the world, why on earth would you keep tabs on them and know when they might be docking. They’re all absolute morons. We had begun to suspect this fact a little while previously, but now it was confirmed. Not to worry though, Getma assured us that our boat was now waiting entry to the port as it had arrived, but was in a queue. It would be docking either that night (Monday) or early on Tuesday. (Note the small hole in their previous excuse of the port being backed up...Grimaldi hadn’t even managed to get the boat to Gabon at that time...probably bad traffic or something...on the open seas)

This was decision time. Jez was coming in hot to DRC on Tuesday night, and probably wouldn’t appreciate a solo 10 day break in the most lawless country in the world, so we had to make a plan. 4 options we reckoned. 1: all wait and hope the Chopper comes in that night/early tomorrow. Relies on Getma and Grimaldi having had a sharp HR turnaround to dismiss the swathes of morons running the show. Unlikely. 2: All head in one car and leave the Chopper for dead. Resulting in an exceptionally uncomfortable couple of weeks' driving, and leaving the majority of my net worth tied up several thousand miles from me guarded only by thieves and cretins. 3: we split and leave one person here to catch up with the Chopper. All very well if it comes in tomorrow, not so good if it doesn’t come in for a week leaving one man flying solo for a 3000 mile game of catch up. Again relies on the integrity and intelligence of people involved in the shipping business. 4: we split, sending one man ahead and 2 to catch up. Means sending someone scouting ahead through the DRC alone, but does at least mean that worst case we end up in 2 pairs. Sold. Alfie stepped up and set off in Rodders after rolling the dice with the shits at a burger bar, leaving the old wrecking crew of Daisy and me to wait on Chop Chop.

"The regular please" at the Owendo Port's trucker cafe

And so the daily routine began. Down to the port in the morning. Discover they have again lied to us. Have a coffee. Wait for the daily ‘conference’ at which we expect the harbour master auctions docking space to fuel his Mercedes habit. Get told our boat will probably dock tomorrow. Return to the town in mildly high spirits. Drink a few beers at the ‘chef’s’ bar. Repeat.

On Thursday the emotional roller coaster really took off as we had a call telling us the boat was docking. We rushed down there to discover that this of course was not true. We did however take the opportunity to have some strong words with anyone who would do more than smile and nod in our faces, which was, of course, only the boss man and woman of the entire operation. At least we were on the map. Having rubbed a couple of braincells together, they assured us that Saturday night would be the big moment, and for the first time in nearly 2 weeks of talking to these monkeys, we got a rational argument as to why that may be. It of course did not excuse the 3 week tardiness, but did at least make sense. To placate us, they agreed to help us out with the paper work on Friday so we could leave the port stat on Sunday.

The paperwork. One of our many institution escapee friends (Corinne in this case) had assured us that once the boat had arrived the paperwork was a five minute affair and we’d be out in jiffy, if smarting a little from the £200 fee they were to charge for driving our car the 50m from deck to terra firma. This of course was not even close to true (but again, why would a shipping agency employee know a thing like that?) Even with the boss lady putting a rush on things, we finished up 10 minutes before everything closed up for the week, now with a £500 fee for the privilege. A big fu*k you very much to Grimaldi at this point who when grilled on potential hidden fees 3 months previously, e.g. port clearing fees, had assured me that there might be a £10 admin fee, but nothing over £50. So no mention of that £500 port clearing fee then fellas?

The boat arrives.....not even a full 3 weeks late!

So Sunday rolled around. Of course for the boat to have actually docked on Saturday would have been too much to ask, but 10.30am on Sunday wasn’t too bad. With all our paperwork ready to go, we sat and watched all day as the boat came in and unloaded. Of course, of the 460 cars to get off, ours was to be 455th and require a crane. Still, how long can that take? When one man manually writes down the registration of each car as it drives off, a long time. Just spitballing here, but maybe use some sort of bar code system, or employ a rank of 5 people to record 5 plates in parallel. We do realise that we’re pretty smart blokes, but even mere port administration executives might be able to stretch their imaginations when they’re running a 2 week backlog!

So we waited. And watched cars being scooped up by forklift, or driven off with locked wheels and bumpers hanging off. Not impressive from Grimaldi and Getma. In our infinite intelligence we queried if we might fire up the crane in parallel to the driving of the cars. Not possible of course, but we did manage to get an estimate to within a six hour window of when it might start. 2 hours later, I asked a French bloke supervising things. “it will start at 7pm which is when the crane operator is due to arrive”. How bloody difficult was that to spit out? And might someone not have mentioned it 9 hours earlier!

Fill your boots fellas. Didn't really want that stuff anyway.

Getting quite frustrated by the time the crane fired its engines (early, incredibly) so requested I be allowed to go and help chopsy get to the front of the queue. Permission to come aboard granted. And then I saw the state of the car. It had been securely locked...until some arsehole took a crowbar to the padlock on the back and helped themselves. Half the tools had gone, the radio, sleeping gear, food...even the Allbran was not spared! And this was hardly a case of someone shoving a quick fiver down their pants when no one was looking. They must have been in there for a good 20 minutes, and had made off with a wheelbarrow of stuff including a 20 litre jerry can. I imagine of course neither Getma nor Grimaldi will take responsibility, as how can you possibly catch employees doing shuttle runs with your customers’ belongings?

So finally, after some borderline special school attempts at lifting the chopper with slings, what was left of him struck land. In the process I witnessed Getma using minibuses to shunt other minibuses around the deck, a broken wind screen, cars being driving with handbrakes on, and a brand new Toyota being used to tow seized cars around deck, no doubt at the cost of a set of tyres and a clutch. All of course belonging to customers paying £500 each for this unloading service.

So we’re almost there. Just to leave the port. But of course that would be too easy, and we’d only been at the port for 13 hours that day. Now the customs fiasco. Despite having had everything stamped and approved by the customs boss man on Friday, we needed to see a customs man. Just as people came around to what we’d been telling them for an hour and got out the release papers, the big man turned up. This see-you-next-Tuesday clearly had an enormous slab of meat between his legs, and liked to demonstrate it through his important slow walk and calling everyone his “petit frère”. Apparently he had nothing better to do than come and tell us that the port was now closed and unless we had perishable goods, the Gabonese army, or something ordered by the President in the car, we were not allowed out. I wanted to punch him in the face. At first we thought maybe he was just a self righteous jobsworth, but then, true to form, he said “lets arrange something”. We laughed in his face. Of course he wanted a bribe....had we forgotten where we were? We pretended to go and discuss what we could afford and I tried to set up my camera to record the corrupt jack ass but sadly failed. Despite him pulling out thick wads of cash from his pocket to again demonstrate how big a deal he was, and how enormous a bribe he would need, we refused and he eventually got bored. We finally left with a squeal of tyres and wishing death on them all (except Patrick who was the one reasonable bloke in the whole mess), as one had a last crack at demanding phone credit for the call he’d had to make to try and remedy one of his series of fuck ups.

Fuming we got back to the hotel in time for a 4 hour sleep before we hit the road. Futile however as sleeping when that angry is no mean feat. At least we had the car. Finally.

I have some strongly worded letters to write when I get back home!

If anything this is probably good for cars...

Clients' minibuses used as shunts and one of Santander's nice new Toyotas used as a tow truck

Run Rodders, run Rodders, run run run....here comes a Chopper...

After our time relaxing at the port we were understandably eager to hit the road and catch up with Rodders before Simmons left (I’m not sure why). We left at 4am partly to try and get within striking distance of the border with Congo-Brazzaville but also because we wanted to get out of the city before the Police awoke from their drunken slumbers and clocked on that we were rolling without insurance (no time to purchase). We powered across the equator for (we hoped) the final time and on to Lambarene, again. The Gabonese roads were smooth and so was Chopper – we were purring along at 65mph, unattainable speeds in Rodders.  Gabon is a beautiful and lush country with incredible forest running right up to white sandy beaches, although judging by the number of tree trunks we saw on lorries soon there won’t be much left of ‘Africa’s last Eden’. After a good day’s driving mostly on good roads we managed to cross the border into Congo-Brazzaville about 10 minutes before the border closed – progress at last. We hadn’t lost our touch with border officials and were pleased to hear that another ‘blanc’ had passed through a week previously in an equally impressive looking vehicle – surely Rodders with Alf at the helm. We drove on looking for a suitable spot to camp as darkness was falling rapidly. No such spot turned up so we found a flat-ish spot at the side of the ‘road’, which since being in the Congo had deteriorated drastically, and did what we always did, relaxed with a warm and highly shaken beer – glorious. We then followed protocol and ate some foul food from an enormous bowl, chucked up our mozzie nets and fell asleep.

We woke early and cracked on immediately. The first ten minutes behind the wheel were always pretty unpleasant - the smell of unwashed bodies, clothes that have done nothing but soak up sweat for a week, damp tents/sleeping bags and diesel was pretty unique. We drove through what can only be described as Tellytubby land with strange hillocks dotted about an otherwise flat landscape – very different to the thick forest of Gabon. We were on decent dirt roads that didn’t look like they saw that much traffic and there wasn’t a human in sight, perhaps because this area is known for a rather unfriendly gang known as the ‘Ninja Rebels’. Unfortunately, we never met any of the Ninja Rebels, which was a shame because we were all out of ice and they sound like the sort of upstanding characters who would have sold us some to chill our beers. Following our change in direction to head east inland to find a suitable point to cross the Congo River, the going became painfully slow due to the state of the road. Fortunately we had intelligence from our advance party on a road under construction known to all as the ‘Chinois’. Driving on this road was strictly ‘interdit’ but anything would be better than a day of diversions. Road blocks on the Chinois were every few kilometres and so began a game of blagging our way onto the Chinois by telling a pack of lies such as “we have permission from the Chief” or faking illness/car problems or a similar emergency, followed by being kicked off the road or almost driving over an unfinished bridge and sliding along a few kilometres of diversion before finally finding a way back onto the road again. The diversions were extremely wet, muddy and slippery and a rudder would have been more useful than a steering wheel. We also only had one operational windscreen wiper, which when the waves of thick muddy water covered Chopper rendered the windscreen useless and we were temporarily flying blind. All good fun. The going had been extremely slow and we’d not made much ground. We called it a night and looked for a relatively quiet spot by the side of the road to go through our usual evening routine.

After another early start we came to a village where we were stopped by some soldiers and we batted away the usual negotiations for a ‘fee’ for looking at our passports. They then informed us that we needed an official escort to protect us from the Ninja rebels who plied their trade along the route so we waited for our convoy to leave supremely confident in our new passenger’s ability to wield his AK47 with devastating effect should we come under attack. In the meantime we introduced our military friend to the likes of Fleetwood Mac and Phil Collins. Communication was difficult due to the language barrier but I think he enjoyed it. He did not, however, enjoy me asking if he could fire his gun. We thought with our new official escort we would be immune to the Chinois check points but unfortunately this faith turned out to be misplaced – there is always a bigger Big Man. The Big Man was already turning over a local Congolese when he pulled us over and we quickly realised that he had been on the booze and if I had to guess his tipple, I would say that he had been mixing his spirits with dog shit due to the smell of his breath. The local took the easy way out by paying him off and advised us to do the same but that is not our way, even when in the wrong, as was the case in this instance. Our papers were checked and after an unusually lengthy period of aggressive threats and thinly veiled demands for a bribe they decided to drive off with our passports. This was not ideal, and our fearless warrior escort had turned into a jibbering wreck. We followed the Big Man until they finally stopped and got out. After further arguing and threats to call our embassy and speak to the Chief if they don’t give our passports back they finally gave in. He was a complete bastard but we were pleased that we hadn’t given him a penny. The road became better as we neared Kinkala and turned south again towards Boko, and the border with the DRC, having made the wise decision to not cross at the main Brazzaville-Kinshasa border crossing, which by all accounts is like a warzone. We reached the border at mid afternoon and spent an hour trying to find someone who could stamp our papers. When we finally found someone we had to do some of our most charming border patter as Will’s visa had expired the day before. Eventually we talked our way out of it and they let us on our way. We crossed into the DRC with another astonishingly smooth, if rather slow, border process and the road instantly disappeared. We didn’t see another car until we reached Luozi the following morning and breaking down was not an option as it was a long walk (~100km) to the nearest likely mechanic. However, we were both excited to be in the country that we had heard so many bad things about both in imperial and recent history. In the late afternoon we hit a bit of a stumbling block, though this was not the usual one of corrupt officials: it was bamboo. There was loads of the stuff and Putters was getting visibly sexually aroused by the straight erect limbs surrounding us. After working himself into a frenzy, I pulled over and allowed him to touch some. He claims he wanted to make a cup out of it but I saw through this and realised it was just an excuse to put it in his mouth. The sun was going down so I tore him away from his new passion to find somewhere to sleep for the night. We were passing through some beautiful country and we found the most perfect camping spot yet. The king of camping spots. Not a single sign of man. The warm sun was dropping down across the valleys with ourselves on a hilltop with an unforgettable view. We had one of our best beers that evening, and after strapping half the bamboo forest to the roof of Chopper (a compromise to get Puts to leave) Put Put had something to amuse himself with as well. He worked up quite a sweat working that bamboo that evening, I can tell you. 

We woke up early (again) and pressed on to reach the first ferry of the day at Labe. We met some extremely friendly Congolese officials who not only cheerfully stamped our carnet for us, but also showed us where we could change our money and buy some things. Aren’t all these people supposed to be bloodthirsty thieves and vagrants? Strictly no photographs allowed in the DRC which is a shame because we were crossing the mighty Congo River on an extremely efficient (the ferry had an engine and everything), if rather crowded ferry service with a policeman sitting on Chopper’s roof. The thing I remember most about this milestone moment was not the majesty of this river or the history that goes with it, but the lady next to us who had woven a basket around a live chicken which functioned both as a cage and as a handbag - extremely innovative. We pressed on south, hoping to reach a town where we could restock our beer supply with some of the (no doubt) fine local ales. However, no matter how fine they would have been, they cannot possibly be worth what they were asking for them – daylight robbery. Things were getting desperate; soon we would be drinking the coolant, and Chopper needed that more than we did due to a presumed, but unidentified, leak. We hit tarmac and followed it for an hour or two until we reached the Angolan border and another smooth border crossing.

We were in Angola and this brought with it our first police chase, although at the time we didn't know we were being chased. We reached a police checkpoint and were pulled over by a police woman who didn't speak a word of English (our Portuguese was a little rusty so communication was clearly going to be a barrier) and via the medium of flailing arms and raised voices she communicated that the police had been chasing us for an hour or so since we passed the last town (I think). God knows why they didn't catch us; we weren't exactly in a Ferrari. After a few more minutes a Toyota pulled up and 6 heavily armed guys jumped out and demanded to see our papers. They told us to report to the police station of every town we go through. We said we will. This was a lie – don't they know we were in a damned hurry! We headed west, towards the coast before heading south towards the capital, Luanda. The sun dropped below the horizon and we decided to look for a spot to sleep on the beach. This turned out to be a disaster, as trying to find somewhere to sleep in the dark often is. The place stank of a combination of dog shit and rotting fish and we couldn’t find any wood to start a fire.  A dreadful campsite.  

The next day we reached Luanda at mid morning. We looked for a land rover garage as we wanted to get a few things ironed out with Chopper: the main one being the hole in the exhaust which was making a dreadful noise and had also been pumping exhaust fumes directly into the cab for the past day or two resulting in a few light headed moments. Here we met one of the world's good guys who really did us a huge favour. We pulled into the official Land Rover garage, which hadn't historically been a happy hunting ground for us (in Morocco they took one look at Rodders, or maybe it was us, and told us to get lost). We asked to see the boss and a huge man with a smile to match came over. He got his man to check over our car and listed a few thousand dollars worth of work that needed to be done – tell us something we don't know. We reply by saying that we can't afford to pay for a thing beyond a few beers for the man that helps us. He chuckled and says he will do it for free – TOP MAN! Out came the soldering iron and our exhaust was as good as new(ish). We also get a few other bits done, like finding out where our coolant was disappearing to (we needed a new radiator). The only bad point was that it took the best part of the day and we were on a tight deadline.  The Chief invited us to lunch with the 200 or so mechanics that worked there, giving rise to 2 mysteries: i) what did we eat? And ii) how did we not get the shits? Truly miraculous. We left late in the afternoon and carried on along the coast until it got dark. Having had lunch we decided we didn't need dinner and drove until midnight before pulling off the road to sleep. No time for beer – the regime was becoming outrageously lean. We decided tomorrow is going to be THE day and set our alarms accordingly. After a couple of hours we woke up feeling like we had barely slept and hit the road. The Tarmac roads were flawless and the diesel was so cheap that we take Chopper to time-bending speeds. We drove and drove and drove. Angola is a big old country with good infrastructure and we saw the scenery at quite a lick. We reached the Namibian border at 5pm having already put in a decent 13 hour shift behind the wheel. However we were feeling good vibes: we were in Namibia and could smell the finish line. However, there was another scent in our nostrils – KF-bloody-C. That's right - the first thing we saw in the Promised Land was the Colonel and we wanted a taste of his secret blend of herbs and spices to fuel us for the home straight towards Windhoek. We put away as much of our 9 pieces of finger lickin’ chicken as we could and I felt like vomiting almost immediately – it’s probably more calories in 10 minutes than we have had in the previous 2 days.  Within 30 mins of entering Namibia it was pitch black so despite driving half the length of the country we didn't see any of it. At about midnight, after another 7 hours of driving since crossing the border and 20 hours straight behind the wheel that day with minimal sleep for the previous 5 days I was flagging and actually started to reason with myself that it would be good for all involved if I had a few seconds of shut-eye. Unfortunately, I was behind the wheel at the time but in the end I only nodded off on a few occasions with no major ramifications. We were guided into Windhoek by the long lost Alfie. We had made it and were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. We roused Simmons for a celebratory beer at 0200 and he was wearing some of the strangest underpants I have ever seen – I think they had a picture of Danger Mouse on them. 

A tribute to Angolan hospitality

They didn't have any Land Rover brake pads in Matadi, DRC. In fact they didn't seem to have any garages or mechanics over the age of 16 either. What they did have were some old Mercedes brake pads, a saw and some chicken wire. After lots of waiting around and some instruction from us (never a good sign) these were finally fitted and we headed South.

The officials at the Angolan border couldn't have been friendlier. They proudly told us that their motto was 'safely first'. It seemed that weren't joking either when they insisted on providing a police escort to the nearest town. The word 'Bandito' now accounted for one third of our combined Portuguese vocabulary. 

In Mbanza-Congo later that night the police insisted on finding us a hotel, negotiating the price and checking us in. When three policemen then showed us to our room and went as far as to test the taps we wondered quite what we had done to deserve such a service. It's possible that northern Angola is a treacherous den of criminality that we were being protected from but it felt more like some very proud local policemen keen to impress rare tourists. They parted with an offhand comment about us maybe wanting to use the shower (deserved) and a promise to be back in the morning to escort us out of town.

Luanda is famous for being the world's most expensive city so we were grateful to be put up by the generous and rather brave AW. The next morning, while the washing machine was doing battle (and losing) we went for run along the sea front. Luanda has all the trappings of an oleaginous kleptocracy's show capital but the sea view was spectacular and the exercise refreshing.

The scenery south of Luanda made us glad to have chosen the coastal road and we even found a deserted beach to camp on. The plan was then to cover the distance to Namibia as quickly as possible but, as tends to happen, Ramrod had other ideas. The rear left wheel had been periodically rattling ever since Libreville but, as we approached Lubango, this developed into an ungodly racket. We ended up camping in one of Angola's ridiculously smart new petrol stations. Lying in between the 24 hour shop and the children's playground it felt more like the Algarve than Africa. After a moment's hesitation we shared our lasts beers with the slightly inebriated, machine gun wielding security guard on the basis that we were better off with him asleep than thirsty.

As we crawled the few miles into Lubango next morning we were greeted by an unexpected but incredibly welcome sign advertising a legitimate Land Rover garage, the first in several thousand miles. Inside, Marco, one of world's true nice guys, made the financially painful experience of replacing the rear axle, bearings, brake disks and pads much more palatable. He even apologised for not having showers on the premises that we could use. As a perennial optimist I decided to be grateful that the Land Rover had waited until the least bad moment before finally becoming undrivable.

The more observant of you may have noticed that unprompted offers of showers were becoming something of a pattern. Sure enough, next morning, a helpful petrol station attendant took one look at our bedraggled state before pointing to the shower block. The cleaner (understandably) didn't seem too keen on the idea until the manager came out in person to demand we be given access. We were therefore able to cross into Namibia in a slightly cleaner, but still far from respectable state.


Jez at the wheel

Point 2 suggest DRC's diversity policy has some way to go

The ubiquitous Angolan flag

Lunar landscape

A good spot for a coffee break

A team effort to take apart the axle



 Up at dawn

Divide and Conquer (sort of)

With Tom’s Land Rover still stuck at sea and Jez due in Kinshasa imminently we decided that we would have to split up. The prospect of several days of solo driving wasn’t particularly attractive but having misguidedly put our faith in an Italian shipping company and an African port we had no other options. The DRC has enough problems without having to put up with a bored Jez. And so, on Monday evening we divided our kit and I headed south while the others continued the painful waiting game in Librevelle.

Within the first hour the mechanical problems began. This time it was the clutch that decided to start playing hard to get. I debated turning back but couldn’t face the prospect of such and early defeat. Three hours and no more than about four gear changes later I finally arrived in Lambarene and headed for the now familiar Pere Paul. The Catholic church of Gabon deserves a special mention here. Between us we've spent at least seven nights camping at various monasteries and missions. On every occasion we were welcomed and then left alone and for that we are very grateful.

The next morning the local mechanic took one look at the clutch and said that I would be lucky to find any spare parts in Gabon. All that could be done would be to top up the fluid regularly and hope for the best. At least with four different fluids now leaking it shouldn't be difficult for the others to follow my tracks.

A long day of driving then took me over the border to Congo Brazzaville. Rather disconcertingly all the officials on the Gabonese side warned that to cross Congo alone would be 'très dangereux'. First impressions suggested otherwise. After a comparatively simple entry process I was invited to camp in between the customs hut and the immigration hut. However, the roads were as bad as the hospitality was good and it took the best part of another day to cover the 150 miles to Dolisie.


There are few things more frustrating that driving at 20mph along an awful road within sight of the shiny smooth and yet to be completed highway. This was the prospect that faced me for the 200 miles from Dolisie to Kinkala. Well, it was until I made the fortuitous choice to pick up a road labourer hitchhiking to work. The new road, known simply as the 'Chinois' was, it seems, not entirely closed. Three more hitchhikers took me 80 miles further on this empty, smooth haven. After that it was simply a case of trying to bluff access including, on one occasion, claiming to be Chinese. This worked until I actually bumped into the 'Chef, whose military escort quickly ejected me from the road.


After three days on my own I was happy to offer a friendly man called Jean a lift at the DRC border. I was even happier when I discovered he was a friend of the immigration officer and all my paperwork was completed in 10 minutes. He seemed to question his own decision when, an hour later, the rear left brake pads literally fell off. Being two hours from the nearest town neither of us had much choice but to proceed cautiously.

By this point both me and the Land Rover were falling apart. The only thing that was unclear was who would brake first. In an attempt to make myself feel better I decided to list all the parts of Ramrod that weren't broken. This proved to be a rather short game and, such was my state of heightened paranoia, that it made me worry even more.


Approaching Luozi I was pulled over at one of the ubiquitous police check points. I immediately went into the familiar routine of firm handshakes, lots of eye contact and am attempt to bombard them with questions and documents. This worked for me but I noticed that Jean had paid up. Afterwards I asked what this was for and was told that they had asked and his life would be made difficult if he didn't comply. It was a good illustration that, although we complain about corruption and attempts to extort money, in reality we are in an extremely privileged position. We can, and have, simply refused to pay any bribes to the police. For most people that is not an option.


When I left Jean in Luozi he asked for me mobile number because he wanted to come to the UK. I reached the final digit and then hesitated. Eventually I entered it correctly, although probably only did so because I knew that it wouldn't come to anything.


After disconnecting the offending brake my final task in Luozi was to have my carnet stamped before I could catch the boat across the Congo river. Fortunately I found another well connected hitch hiker which ensured that the customs officer was up at 7am with stamp in hand.


At Kimpese I finally hit the tarmac. However, on the first hill I noticed the engine was losing power and the exhaust had ceased the puff out reassuring black smoke. With a receding clutch and defective brakes it seems that the accelerator had decided to go down in sympathy.


Matadi doesn't have much to commend me but when I eventually rolled in and was greeted by Jez and a beer it seemed like the promised land. It had taken nearly 45 hours of driving to cover 1000 miles over 5 days. On truly awful roads in remote areas of the Congo with a disintegrating Land Rover it hadn't been the ideal stretch to do solo. Thankfully I received nothing but assistance from people I met along the way and Ramrod lived up to its reputation of 'always sick, never dead'.

A lonely road

 The new and the old

 I've been cleaner

 A relic from the past

 The first view of the river Congo (and Jean's first experience with a camera)

Could we really be nearly released from our urban prison?

We've been promised that our boat is landing tonight and that we can get the car out tomorrow. Obviously we remain braced for yet another kick in the balls but this is feeling pretty positive! All the paper work done yesterday - we'd originally been told a 5 minute job....7 hours later, with the boss lady working for us directly and putting a rush on things with customs we were done. And somehow grateful despite the never before mentioned £500 fee for the privilege! (Yet another balls up from Grimaldi who when asked the direct question "are you sure we don't have to pay anything on top at the other end to get the car out" replied "no, no....if anything maybe like a tenner port tax or something, but definitely nothing more than 50 quid" Morons!)

Otherwise, a positive day here. It sounds like both Alfie and Rodders are broken, but they have now rendez-vous'ed with Jez so things will perk up there. By all accounts Jeremy steered clear of the prostitutes sharing his bus out of Kinshasa, despite the bus driver's best intentions, so retains a clean bill of health.

We've found a spare wheel bearing, which puts our mind at rest as Africa eats them, and even some off cuts of foam to prop up our left butt cheeks where there is a void in chopper's current padding arrangement.

Keep all fingers, toes and other body parts crossed for us in the morning...with a bit of luck this will be the last post (at least from Will and me) for a few days as the fun really begins...driving dusk till dawn for a week to try and make up time!

(apols for the lack of photos in the last few posts....do a google image search for Libreville and Port Owendo. That should pretty much cover it)

The daily routine

By WD:

Libreville...

It is now Friday and the last few days have continued in a depressingly rhythmic pattern as follows: wake up sweating, curse there being a well equipped, if filthy, bathroom but without any running water; death-ride to the port in a taxi, wonder how many times it’s possible to cheat death in a 20 minute journey; talk to Getma, become irate at ineptitude; drink a coffee; talk to port authority, become irate at ineptitude; taxi back to town; kill a few hours and then head to the ‘Chef’ for the cheapest beers in town.

In the last few days there have been 2 incidents provoking emotions other than anger and frustration. The first was on Thursday being told by a well meaning, but moronic, gent at the port that we would be able to pick up Chopper the following day. High fives and fist pumps all round, fantastic news, still 2 weeks late but we’ll take what we can get at this stage. We race to the port to sort paperwork but are told by Getma that what we have been told is complete bollocks and the boat isn’t due until Samedi Soir. The earliest we can pick it up will be Monday. Bugger. We have gone from cloud nine to rock bottom in the space of an hour and our patience is now wafer thin.

This brings me to the second incident: we decide in classic British fashion that the only answer is to drink enough beer to forget that we are in the middle of an African bureaucratic vortex that we are valiantly struggling, but ultimately failing, to exit. Before we leave, my urine (akin to cooking oil in both colour and viscosity) tells me I am extremely dehydrated, alas we have no water. Beer seems the only substitute and we go hard on the 50p pints for the next few hours rolling back to the ‘hotel’ at midnight. This morning it feels as if a pig has shat in my head and i’m sluggish to say the least but we are continuing our fight and progress might be being made, however I have thought this before...

About that burger....and other miscellaneous

As It turned my wallet was in Ramrod and our remedial chlorine water and antibiotics staved off the diarrhoea. #smallmercies

However, the burgers deserves another mention because they were something of a culinary wonder. The kitchen they were prepared in appeared to be functional, if basic to say the least. It seemed it could heat things. We therefore assumed that in the 40 minutes it took to cook the burgers*, they would become piping hot and delicious. Not so. As he plopped the food down on the table, the opportunistic chef picked up a chip that had slipped off a plate and gobbled it down enthusiastically, giving us a big grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up as if to say “bloody hell that’s a good chip I’ve made”. We followed suit, and were absolutely perplexed as to how he had made the just-above-room-temperature stale chips. Had he cooked them before the burgers and allowed them to cool? Surely they wouldn’t be so stale. Perhaps he had cooked them yesterday and just tossed a handful onto each plate now. If so, how were they not quite stone cold? Maybe they had just been on a slow burn all day long. However it was done, it was a real achievement. The burgers were in a similar vain, but all the more worrying as a cold burger can be far more venomous than a cold chip. Foolishly we still wolfed them down, throwing our bowels into the hands of the gods.

And this wasn’t a one off incident. On two other occasions we have ordered food off the menu here. First was the plate of chips that took an hour to cook in a deserted restaurant (they hadn’t been forgotten as the waitress continually assured us that they were almost ready). Then there was the chicken and chips. The latter piping hot, but the tepid former causing imaginations to run wild as with no lights we couldn’t see what we were eating. The temperature alone inspired the comment “yep, that tastes exactly like the shits to me”.

Now onto other things. The Gabonese are a lovely bunch in general, but the taxi drivers are an odd breed. Almost everywhere else we’ve been in the world taxis are either on a meter, or more likely at a price negotiated at the start of the journey. Here however, they don’t even stop for you. The protocol for getting a taxi is to think of a price and a destination, and then shout them (in that order) through the window of a moving taxi in the hope that he hears you. Nine times out of ten drive pulls a disgusted face, shakes his head and speeds off. IF he approves, he pulls a disgusted face, doesn’t look you in the eye or say a word, but gives a short toot on his horn and stops. I guess Gabonese taxi drivers do ok, but it seems odd that they choose to throw away so much custom. If they just stopped and discussed a price they might find they can treat the wife and kids a little more often.

The fun doesn’t stop once you’re in the taxi. Jesus Christ are they scary. Almost without fail they sound as though they might fall apart at any second, and then they drive like complete lunatics. Our best yet was the guy who did 70 down the “motorway” quite literally 2 inches from the bumper of the car in front, and then showing off with a few minutes of “no hands”, weaving between lanes using his knees, while playing with his phone. Of course, neither of us piped up just in case we looked like wimps.

And finally, eyebrows. I'm all for ladies who take time to look attractive, and that extends to a little eyebrow preening. But here, they've really taken it to the next level. Eyebrows are all pencil thin and give such a look of surprise i keep looking over my shoulder to wonder what it is that has shocked the poor women! The best are the ones where they've actually completely removed the dark brown/black eyebrows, and painted on red ones! Really special stuff. Sadly no pictures to share, so we'll leave it to your imaginations.

*Unlike Europe and the States where “fast food” is a term with negative connotations and hence avoided, here it is banded around liberally on shop fronts. Unfortunately it does not do exactly (or anything like) what it says on the tin!

So....Libreville

We arrived back from Loango on Sunday, on tenterhooks about retrieving the Chopper the following morning. Getma, the port agent had told us it would arrive some time last week, and Grimaldi’s London office (the shipping line) had told us it was due to be unloaded over the weekend. Long story short, they’re all liars and it wasn’t there. Corinne, the Getma manager has told us quite matter of factly that the delay is whole heartedly down to the four day independence holiday (thanks very much France), and that normally boats are never delayed by more than a day or two vs schedule. My question to her and to Grimaldi I think is fairly reasonable....did you not see this coming? Gabon gained independence 53 years ago, and has been celebrating the fact every year, like clockwork, ever since. I wonder if they crumble in a flurry of panic each year as independence yet again catches them by surprise?

Oh well. C’est la vie. C’est l’Afrique! So what to do? This was Monday and Jez was flying in to Kinshasa some 1000km away on Tuesday evening to meet us. Being a complete baller he has booked two nights in 5 star luxury, but after that, spending his remaining 10 days of annual leave alone in the DRC getting robbed might wear a little thin. With little faith in anything the port tells us we had to plan for a worst case scenario of the car not coming in for at least another week, so we decided to split. Alfie would fly solo for two days, driving south to meet Mr. Simmons and Daisy and I would wait it out here for the Chopper to land. Hopefully we’ll be chasing them down in a couple of days, but should the car not arrive until next week at least we’ll be in two pairs.

So we ate consolatory burgers for lunch, and having finished decided that they were definitely cold enough to give us the shits. Fate can be a cruel mistress at times but only time would tell if she was really out to get us today. Then we divvied up the gear and waved goodbye to Alfie, leaving the original wrecking crew from parts 1 and 2. Ten minutes later I realised I’d misplaced my wallet. The only possible way for this day to get any worse would be for that burger to kick in and an explosion of watery faeces to trickle down my leg.

Loango: 'Africa's Last Eden'

By WD:

Coolbox-gate: Alf finally crumbles and agrees that leaving the coolbox in Abuja was a crime worthy of death. We replace and then stock up with Castel - a local brew that is enough to not be absolutely awful and then hit the road. 6 hours later we all pucker up when Rodders starts to squeal like a piggy. But why? We stopped to look at it. We shook various things. Drove forward and backwards. Why wasn’t Rodders happy? We still don’t know. We pressed on until dark and ended up asking a local, Roy (the Boy) if we could make camp in his garden. He says that his brother has a much better place just down the road - everything is relative. We head down the road and get invited to the local bar for a drink, obviously we are paying and get a few Regab’s in for the bar. They seem a mostly friendly bunch though we begin to realise that Roy the Boy is a few sandwiches short of a picnic so we call time at the bar after 2 and return and cook some dinner - something tinned, of course. Roy the Boy gets on our nerves and we hit the hay at a reasonable hour.

We race away from Roy the Boy in the morning before he has enough time to get his buzz on again and we reach Loango, ‘Africa’s last Eden’, 1 hr later. We drive into the lodge and try to figure out how to get across the lagoon into the park but it turns out Loango may as well be on a different planet as it is the hardest tourist destination to reach I have ever come across.

We meet a Frenchman call Mathieu who realises we are too poor to stay at his lodge and kindly gets a guide of his, Yuri, to spend the night with us on the other side. Top man. this is not strictly street legal and we end up incurring the wrath of ‘The Conservateur’, ‘The Brigadier’ and ‘Bob’. No joke. this rumbles on for a day or two and somehow we manage to not pay a bribe. Remarkable. Yuri invites us for dinner at his preceded by a few pina coladas - Alfie starts strong but fades quickly. Poof. 

The next day we ended up going on a cruise to see some elephants etc. and I went up to my knee in what Putnam believes is faeces while wearing my only pair of trousers and

in the middle of stalking buffalo on foot. They spy us. We try not to snigger like schoolboys. It’s too hard and they scarper. On our way back we are spotted by the stand-in Brigadier who was eager to seize his moment of importance and wants to bring up our illicit trip to the park with Yuri, no doubt to extract a ‘tax’. He imposes his authority by ordering us to wait whilst he visits the little boys room to drop off the Gabonese Paras. He returns in the fashion of an all conquering emperor with one of the most infuriatingly slow walks I have ever witnessed. The topic is covered in 10 minutes but there is the typical Africa repetition so we end up being there for about an hour before we stand up and leave saying we will call The Conservateur the next day.

We hit the road as the sun goes down and find a nice spot where we light a fire and put some tins of ravioli on the heat. We eat out of the can sitting on the floor (Alf forgot the camp-chairs, silly billy). Almost as soon as our forks our down we all simultaneously declare our need to poo and do so immediately. Put Put is done first and takes on the role of lead photographer (I must remember to delete these before I show the grandparents). We all congratulate each other on a job well done and prepare for bed as we have an early start to (hopefully) head back to Libreville to pick up Chopper.

Lady luck is trumped by African administrative ineptitude.

With many an "eeeeee" we picked up Daisy and his extraordinarily heavy bag (god knows why....except for a £100 poly-cotton tarpaulin) and did exactly as any self respecting trio of Brits on Tour would on such a reunion: went to the beach for a beer! This soon turned into several beers, and culminated in some sort of jungle themed bar with a perilous number of water features for such an inebriated bunch. We did meet some French expats who usefully gave us their numbers to help with getting into national parks etc. Sadly we didn't remember they'd given them to us until several days later!

After a cosy night with 3 in a bed (bar the period I inexplicably chose to sleep on the concrete floor) we awoke with some of the driest mouths ever known to man. Day in particular who had spent the previous 36 hours either on an anhydrous Ethiopian airways flight or putting away copious lagers. Alfie, being a complete pervert, went for a 2 hour run, while the sane 2 of us dragged ourselves out in search of water. Normally we try to keep things on the cheap, but in our state Daisy and I were in no position to argue with Alfie's high rolling mood so we splashed some serious cash on omelettes with all the trimmings in search of better health.

We knew the next day was going to be a big one....the first day the Port would be open after the 4 day holiday to get the chopper out, so we set about finding a nice campsite for D-day eve. This we found at Costa Brava (I think....its definitely not Costa del Sol) although Alfie, ever the perfectionist decided it wasn't quite right so went in search of somewhere better. He failed, although did try and convince us that the workers compound he's found was more idyllic than our deserted white sand beach, but he did find a shop selling refreshments...between the two we were sorted. I skinny dipped and even washed. What a dream!

Early doors start in the morning as the beautiful beach was a long way from the port...both geographically and emotionally, and we wanted to be first in. Being a little early Alfie predictably dragged us out for a pain au chocolat (he's yet to subscribe to the lean regime of the Ramrod Rally) and then it was go time. TIA, so we of course spent several 15 minute waiting periods in the wrong offices before someone thought we might be interested to know where indeed the right office was. Once in the right office, hope gently waned as the to and fro-ing failed to result in any happy news. Despite being over a week late already, they think the boat will be in the port on Firday. Shit! In fact the only thing they managed to do for us was give us an invoice for 272 Euros which apparently we are to gracefully pay once our package has arrived, for the privilege of having them drive the car from a boat onto the dock. Today did not go well.

If there's one thing we learnt from parts 1 and 2 its to roll with the punches. So we propped our chins back up and decided we'd head to Loango national park as planned and come back next weekend to have another crack at battling African bureaucracy. On our way out we got a wheel bearing tightened assuming the mechanics knew what they were doing. They didn't, jacking it up on a 10% slope and promptly dropping it on its hub!

And then we were three...

The policemen on both sides of the crossing had clearly failed to read the African border guard raining manual. No Kafkaesque bureaucracy, no attempts to exhort money, no five hour wait while they fetch the man with the stamp. Just a friendly 'Bon voyage'.

In northern Gabon the rain forest was so dense that we had to camp on a village green. The elders were very welcoming and in return we became babysitters to dozens of fascinated children for the evening. The ratio of children to adults seemed very high, which made more sense when one of our hosts told us, after a long pause for some mental arithmetic, that he had 14. It was comforting to see how familiar their games of throwing grass in each others faces were. Luckily our schoolboy french had left us with a good knowledge suitable reprimands. Several hours of playing the avuncular entertainers later we eventually managed to light a fire, cook our food and persuade them to go to bed. The next morning we were woken to find a row of eager faces again peering into our tent.

Whoever made up Equatorial Guinea (and, judging by its shape, someone definitely did) really didn't have the convenience of overland travelers in mind. Well, not the sort too disorganised to get a full set of visas anyway. This meant a long day of detouring before we finally arrived in Libreville.

The capital of Gabon seemed pretty bland on first inspection, but this might have been because the entire city was on a four day public holiday (a legacy of the French no doubt). Instead of hanging around we headed aimlessly north. Had we drawn a picture of our perfect camping spot (and assuming we could draw) we could not have improved on what we stumbled upon in Cap Esterias: a flat patch of grass in between a tropical forest and a picturesque beach, looking out on the Gulf of Guinea. There was even a small shack serving cold beer. There's very little to say about the next few days. We slept, we ran, we read, we ate, we drank and we waited for the inevitable change of fortune.

We returned to Libreville to find the streets lined with military vehicles, always a slightly disconcerting experience in Africa. Fortunately in this it was for the 53rd anniversary of Independence. Later that day, and to everyone's surprise, Daisy arrived ahead of schedule and with all his luggage.

Cameroon: check!

TP: So on Sunday we said goodbye to Gillian* and set off with our sore heads, poorly packed car and new haircut. First up though I displayed fine mechanical prowess by successfully changing the oil...I can probably fix anything now...

The only possible complaint we can make about Cameroon is that its too easy...tarmac roads complete with white lines, very friendly locals, and non-corrupt police! I did get slightly ripped off by an old lady in a village...but even that was entertaining! She told me I could buy a sachet of "whiskey" for 100 CFA so I humoured her, but didn't seem to get a sachet in return. It turns out she meant I could buy a sachet of whiskey for her because it was Sunday!

A very leisurely couple of hours later we arrived at the outskirts of Kribi and took the first dirt road to the beach where we found the Residence St. Benoit and Roger, the lovely owner/guardian who was very happy for us to park our car with him and camp on the beach. Very picturesque beach and the sea was such a perfect temperature it was hard to get out. After being invited to a graduation ceremony next week, we inquired from the guy sweeping the floor about getting some food and drink. Roger's kids were swiftly dispatched to buy us beers and our friend offered us spaghetti....it turns out he was just another very hospitable guest! We shared dinner with him and his friend (not wife - put my foot in it there!) and had great chats. He's a tour guide and will soon be leading a trip to Senegal and back.

In the morning, we went running. Yes, this is what happens if you go travelling with PHiggins apparently! I know its good for me and I should do it, but I really did not sign up for this shit! Anyway, we got to Kribi which doesn't really exist as a town then Alf ran back while I more sensibly took a mototaxi. Must remember to eat before running in future.

After getting our car washed by Rogers kids we rolled out, and went for a quick canoe trip inland from Kribi during which we bought some still wriggling prawns to cook up later. (We had to reverse haggle for the car wash - they wanted 15p, we gave them £1). Unfortunately we don't have visas for Equatorial Guinea, so had a fairly major obstacle to get around. We hoped to stay in the Campo nature reserve, but it soon transpired that while we were very close, there were no roads to access it from this side. We stopped to confirm this fact at a village, and Daniel, the chief promptly invited us to camp in his village, which we accepted. The hospitality far from ended there though. After running Mama Ingo back to her village we got upgraded to a room in a house, they made a fire for us, and then the cherry on the cake...they peeled our prawns for us! They even scooped out our pasta onto our plates when we displayed such ineptitude in doing it ourselves. These people really are incredibly kind, and absolutely didn't ask for anything in return. Its difficult to imagine similar levels of hospitality would be found in the UK if tables were turned. Our host, Richard, also highlighted how much of a pair of wetters we are by happily picking up red hot coals from the fire with his bare hands...absolute animal! We dozed off that night to the sound Richard and his wife gently humming God Save the Queen as a lullaby to their 7 month old twins.

In the morning we washed in the river then set off for the border. By taking a road unfairly dismissed on google maps as being much more minor than the dirt road to Ebolowa we managed to shave off some time and were at the border in just a few hours. Easy peasy! Now though to contend with the border crossing....often a long and difficult process in Africa. Not so here. A quick chat, a couple of stamps and we were out of Cameroon within half an hour! Thank you Cameroon, we couldn't have asked much more of you and your people!

*Gillian has flown to the Central African Republic to report on the situation as everybody who can is fleeing the other way. Great big balls!

Alfie is a Moron

(Putnam, Thursday 15th August) For many years now, Alfie has been pulling the wool over our eyes, presenting the facade of a highly intelligent man. It saddens me therefore to shoulder the burden of revealing the truth....that he is, in fact, a complete buffoon.

When Daisy and I left Rodders in his care in January, everything was just so. Over the course of 7 weeks and 10,000 miles it had evolved into the perfect overland machine. When we had a need, Rodders would solve it. There was a place for everything, and everything had its place. Alfie didn't bring all the things:

1) The coolbox: I almost could have understood if he'd packed in a rush and forgotten it, but when questioned he actually said "why would you need a coolbox?" The familiar association between camping and beer and meat is clearly not one he has made.

2) The chairs: If anyone's passing through Veranda and needs a nice sit down, there are two very comfortable camping chairs on Alfie's veranda. However, there are no camping chairs in the back of Rodders.

3) A big piece of plywood: This one is harder to explain to those not accustomed to overland Landrover travel. A large piece of wood creates an accessible space underneath it, on the oddly shaped floor for jerry cans, tools and spares, and a flat surface on top of it for bag, food etc. I have tried to no avail to make the best of this bad situation in terms of car packing. Alfie packed the rest of the gear into several equally miscellaneous boxes which makes it very difficult to make e.g. the cooking equipment more accessible. 

*I do appreciate, as Alfie has kindly pointed out, that my particular-ness over car packing may well be a sign of aging. 

5.2%...Naat!

TP:  Between discussing the optimal ageing process for Landrovers, James May describes the part of men's anatomy that tingles when they get excited about cars. I used to think this was silly, but as Rodders was inbound to my hotel in Douala mine was going like the clappers. As he came into view he once again looked more majestic than I remembered, this time coated in mud from doing what he does best on the sodden Mamfe road.

After hugs, kisses and much needed showers, Alfie, Gillian and I hit the town. There's little to report on "le Mediterranean" other than it's not African (more to come on African cuisine later no doubt). But we did drink some beers. Just two, (1.5 for Gillian, the reserved soul) but we did have them. And then due to the complete lack of atmosphere we asked a nice taxi man to take us elsewhere where we drank two more beers. And then, because this place was far too loud and dark, we pressed on to one more venue...a nearby terrace overlooking the streets of Douala. And there, we drank two more beers. We had therefore drank six beers each over the extended course of the evening (bar Gillian; you do the math). A reasonable, but not excessive number. What happened next however, was not characteristic of a man with just six lager beers in his belly. Alfie had made noises earlier about shaving his head, in the hope it would grow back before he had to once more be a serious person, and he was spurred on by his recent diet. 

Now seems the right moment to divulge Cameroon's little secret, of which we learnt the following day. The Cameroonian lager of choice ('33) clearly states that it's alcohol content is 5.2%. However, common knowledge, our headaches and Alfie's haircut all clearly state otherwise. Apparently its very difficult to control the brewing process so as to maintain a steady 5.2%, and since no one gives a shit, they just make it a lot stronger!

So back to our final bar. Alfie is spurred on and, god bless Africa, we found an on call barber at 2am on a Sunday. It turns out Alfie has an exceptionally round scull.

Out of office activated

APH: The route out of Nigeria was typical in many ways: wonderful hospitality courtesy of the Igben family, lots of persistent and clearly intoxicated policemen (total bribe count so far is 1 cerial bar) and gradually deteriorating roads. Thankfully I was not alone, Gillian Brock's excellent company easily making up for her occasionally erratic driving.

The Cameroon border was where the roads stopped and the fun really started. Rainy season is definitely not the best to travel through Ekok. Two days later, helped by a diet of coffee, cookies and the inspirational sounds of Now 39 we made it to Douala and the first rendez-vous of the trip. Swapping Gillian for Tom felt like being rather short-changed, particularly when he revealed a complete inability to pack a car properly and a weakness for forgetting which side of the road to drive on. 

The tarpaulin saga continues

Will, 09:47:

http://www.tatonka.com/Products/Tents/tarps-tarp-poles/Tarp-2-TC/2461

I want one of these.

They’ve drawn me in with the ‘cotton mix’ that will keep us in the shade as well as dry if it rains. What more can you ask for from a tarp? The only sticking point is it is about 100 big ones. Outrageous.

Will, 09:58:

Shall I buy a tarp? http://www.ddhammocks.com/product/ddtarp_coyote_brown_3x3

How likely is it to rain? It’s called a rainforest. I’m ordering now.

Will, 10:32:

I just spent 100 on a tarp. I couldn’t help myself. Somebody stop me. Camping equipment is my financial nemesis.

I’m getting overexcited.

T-1

You never really own a Defender. You merely look after it for the next expedition. And so, within a week of taking delivery of ‘Ramrod’, I was making plans to join this rabble of reprobates for the journey onwards to (or at least towards) Cape Town.

By plans, of course, I mean plugging random destinations into Google maps. Apparently it takes a mere 99 hours to drive from Abuja to Cape Town. The only caveats that are added are that the road passes through multiple countries and may involve a ferry crossing. All sounds pretty straightforward then.

Having assembled all the ingredients for such a trip (an understanding employer, an assortment of colourful visas, a bottle of whiskey and a pack of trademark white vests) it was time to bid farewell to the shining lights of Abuja and head out into the ‘real Africa’.

The complications seemed to have started before we did. With three days to go I found a large pool of red liquid under the front wheels. My first guess was road kill, but unfortunately it turned out to be power steering fluid. After 48 hours of patiently waiting for a new pump to be delivered from Kano we were all set to go…

An email exerpt from Day...how Landrover expeditions ruin lives.

"I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a tarp so much – but how the fuck are they so expensive. It’s just a piece of fabric.

Shall I do it. what are the chances that we will be camping in one place long enough for me to erect it. is it going to rain at night. Will we need shade during the days. This can solve all of the above. But for a price. If I won the lottery I would blow at least half of my jackpot on expedition equipment. The other half most likely on defenders. In fact I might buy a lottery ticket this week. I’m feeling lucky."

The birth of The Chopper

In April:  
Having trawled ebay for days, one majestic beast jumped out as being the one. Those who know defenders know they come in two sizes. The longer 110" wheelbase and the shorter 90". However, just like daddy bear and baby bear, neither is "just right". The obvious answer to this is to get a chop shop rebuild at 100" - the perfect size. So it was that on a boys' reunion weekend, still a little merry from a full speed night in the Lizard Lounge reliving the good old days that Guy Shepherd was convinced to drive to Cheddar to view the potential acquisition. This only took a little bit of lying about it being only 15 minutes away, which later made him angry.

The test drive was a casual affair, driving up and down a field and making what we thought were the appropriate sorts of noises and faces to make when buying a second hand car. Skillfully negotiating the line between asking no questions so looking like idiots, and asking stupid questions so looking like idiots I made my offer. A car full of us had gone for moral support so the test driving phase was a long and repetitive one...the highlight being Gary complaining about the brakes not stopping the car as he skidded up and down the man's field at 30mph creating furrows which we can only hope will prove useful for next year's crop. The other bidder was a no show so she was mine! Next to the naming; after several iterations including Spicy One-Ton, The ChopShop and Chop Suey we settled on The Chopper. In hindsight Mummy Bear might have been more suitable.