Footloose Scot

by Jim Glendinning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  We were making good progress wit
hout any mechanical problems. Within the group we learned not to sit next to someone we disliked. The shimmering heat, the bumping of the vehicle and lack of proper toilets and washing were trying, but no one was freaking out. At frontier crossings there was relief since the size of the vehicle and the number in our group made us entertainment value. Our vehicle permits were in order and our visas were all current so it was simply a time for patience. At one place, we even played a soccer game against some local soldiers as we waited for our passports to be stamped.

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

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

  SAHARA DESERT, ALGERIA

  GORGON HEAD, LEPTIS MAGNA

  At this point, I decided to leave the group for a while. I wanted to visit Ghana, the two small countries of Togo and Benin, and also Nigeria, the richest and most populous in the region. I would meet up with the group in Bangui, Central African Empire, eleven days later.

  Ghana, now in its twentieth year since independence, proved to be easy to visit. I hitchhiked, met with some British teaching volunteers and stayed in their village. In Accra I stayed in a university residence and walked around the city centre. English was widely spoken and there was a level of economic development way ahead of the Sahel countries.

  From Ghana I rode in a shared taxi to Togo. This country, formerly a French possession, is less than 40 miles wide at its southern limit, the coastline, and stretches 335 miles north. In this space of 22,000 square miles live around six million Togolese. In a snack bar in the capital, Lome, I got to speaking with some English expatriates, working on a power installation. They invited me to their villa for a couple of days eating and drinking. The free accommodation and food was welcome, but their lack of interest in the country and its culture was depressing. I felt that I had not come to Africa only to talk about English soccer and eat fried eggs and chips. I thanked them and caught another shared taxi to the next country.

  At a cheap hotel in Cotonou, the capital of Dahomey, the cheerful young receptionist said to me: "Are you coming to celebrate our National Day?" I asked her what was going on. She told me it was Independence Day and the President was coming to make a speech, on the beach just outside of the capital, and there would be music and dancing. It would last all day, and be very festive.

  This sounded like something to see, so I started walking, following group of local families carrying picnic things towards the beach. After twenty minutes, the crowds were getting thicker, when suddenly a police car drove past me, and pulled to a halt. Two police officers got out, and approached me. "What are you doing?" they asked in French. I was going to the fete, to help celebrate National Day, I told them. "No, you're not," they said "Come with us." And they opened the back door of the car and pointed for me to get in.

  The car turned round, and headed back to the city center. I asked the officers what was going on, why they were preventing me from attending the festival. All they said was that I would soon find out. We stopped at a police station, and went inside. A senior officer was there, and he told me to sit down. "We are holding you here for the day in preventative custody. You will stay in this office, not in a cell, but you will remain until I come back in the evening."

  I was at first disturbed, then angry, then found time to see some humor in the situation. Wanting only to be a good tourist and celebrate a public holiday with these easy-going and friendly black folks I, a solitary white man wearing travel worn clothing, was being held as a security risk, or so I assumed. They never exactly spelled it out. The senior officer left in the police car, maybe checking for some more undesirables. The police man on duty pointed to a chair, and there I sat for eight hours, with occasional trips to the toilet. "Now you can go" said the senior policeman when he returned in the evening.

  Nigeria was a huge contrast after the laid-back atmosphere of Togo and Dahomey. It was big and bustling, and the people were more aggressive. Even before I entered the country, the immigration officer was determined to make a point to me coming from England. My passport and visa were in order, but I was made to wait as other visitors were admitted ahead of me. When the officer beckoned me from my seat where I had waited for two hours, I asked him what was the matter. He officiously said that he always checked British passports very carefully, since "our boys are not treated well at Heathrow".

  The crowds and the noise in Lagos drained me of much desire to visit the city sights. Hustling shopkeepers, demanding beggars and loud traffic noise were too much. I had spent the worst night of the trip sleeping in a student hostel with the window open to a sewage drain. Mosquitoes swarmed all around, and retreating under the bed covers only increased the heat. It was time to get out. I bought a plane ticket to Douala, Cameroon Republic and took a bus out to the airport. Nigerian Immigration again examined my passport at great length, asking why I was leaving. It took all my self control to restrain myself and give an innocuous reply.

  Waiting in line to change money at Doula, I started talking with an older white man. A Belgian national, he was almost at the point of retirement having spent a lifetime teaching in African universities. He had just returned from a trip to Belgium to make last-minute arrangements before he and his wife would finally retire. Tall and dignified, his subject was English literature, so he spoke English easily. After only a few minutes chatting in the exchange line, he invited me to come and spend a couple of days in the apartment he and his wife occupied downtown. There was plenty of space since their three children were all in Europe. I reminded him, he said, of his elder son. From the hellhole of Lagos to air-conditioned comfort with educated, pleasant people, my fortunes had changed for the better.

  As arranged, I rejoined the group at the campsite in Bangui, capital of the Central African Empire. Of the many French former colonies in Africa, this one was one of the strangest. The head of state was Emperor Bokassa, who had been crowned emperor two years previously in a ceremony costing a quarter of a million U.S. dollars. This madman was kept in power by the presence of the French Foreign Legion stationed in Bangui but was overthrown two years later. At his subsequent trial evidence was introduced that he consumed human flesh. The situation in the capital when we arrived was stable but uneasy. We had a day to explore Bangui before crossing the river into Zaire. Our leader Jo said "In view of the tense situation, do not take any pictures of the military, police, or of any public buildings".

  I was wandering around the downtown part of the capital, which contained some stores, a market, shacks and a few high rise government buildings. Being a smart ass, I thought I would take a quick picture of the tree-lined avenue, which bordered the presidential palace (I could just see the roof in the background). It looked quite handsome and there were some local woman in the foreground. I stepped off the sidewalk, quickly took a picture, stepped back and resumed my stroll.

  A few minutes later, I was stopped by two young Africans, in smart casual clothes. They had that confidence and swagger which spoke of someone in authority, with clout. They weren't just civilians, they were plain clothes police. They confronted me: "Monsieur (we were talking in French now), you were taking pictures of our president's home." Hoping to flatter them, I said, "I was taking pictures of your wonderful capital and the most majestic presidential pa
lace." They were not flattered, and said, "You will come with us." I knew I was in trouble.

  The plain clothes guys left me at the main police station to be interviewed by the Chief of Police who was out to lunch. Time passed and I thought the truck would leave without me. Suddenly the Chief of Police arrived, a portly man in a smart uniform with a fancy military hat. He looked at me without much interest as his underlings explained why I had been brought in. I jumped in and seized the initiative. My French was working overtime and in this crisis I was fluent. I was taking pictures, I told him, just as souvenirs. "If this infringes any law I will give them to you," I said. "In fact," I added, "I will give you the whole camera." I was apologetic and effusive, the picture of a sweaty, nervous white tourist. Bored with this sight, he said "Go way" dismissing me with a wave of the hand. I had the feeling that he thought that dealing with miscreants like me was below his station. Nothing more.

  So I scuttled out of the police station and rejoined the truck. There were some sardonic remarks as I climbed on board just before it left for our evening camp site. I could have done without the experience, but it taught me to listen to people who know more than I do. It might have made a good book "Seven years in a jail in central Africa" but for the time being I was totally relieved and chastened.

  The next day we crossed the Ubangi River into Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo), the center of tropical Africa. From the shifting desert sands and cold nights of the Sahara, we now travelled in humid temperatures along potholed muddy roads with the jungle foliage scraping the side of the truck. We averaged perhaps ten miles an hour. The wet heat was constant, the bug population always on the attack and the jungle noises never ceased. When we reached a river, the choice was either a narrow log bridge or a rickety old ferry which the truck drove cautiously onto, and everyone hoped the ferry wouldn't sink.