Carry On (Not) Screaming

THERE are more notable locations around Fife Avenue in Harare. The city’s Test cricket ground and Robert Mugabe’s presidential palace – complete with heavily-armed men in uniform patrolling the perimeter in case anybody takes an ill-thought out selfie – for starters.

But the setting which drained my time, my money and… well, let’s not go into exactly what was drained just yet, was a rather bland doctor’s office.*

The reason for the visit was initially dismissed as merely a blister on the side of my foot, a side effect of my switch to flip-flops and my lifelong habit of walking on the side of my feet. Right up until a quick check after stepping out of the shower in the Zimbabwean capital discovered what had been a lump of hard skin was now a suspiciously squishy shade of yellow.

Throw in a collection of bites which were just not healing and it was time to give in to the inevitable – and the urgings of a couple of people since a brief bout of sickness in Bulawayo, which was not followed by the normal swelling of one of my legs, well not much – and seek medical help.

It has all added to a week of doing, largely, not a lot since leaving the big beasts of Antelope Park.

Quiet Spot – Pulling over at the side of the road has its advantages

It even, courtesy of a sore back and generally feeling rundown, had me retreating to my bed before it was even dark as most of the rest headed up to investigate the ruins of Great Zimbabwe, the former thriving civilisation which gave its name to the new country upon independence.

Which made a trip to Heaven, our home away from home overlooking the Chimanimani Mountains, a pretty ideal spot to kick back and relax (let’s be honest, the chances of me heading out on one of the long walks through the mountains or one of the adjoining hills were slim at best, even with non-aching feet).

My foot, at this point, still enabled a walk down into the village and a trip to the local bar to celebrate Gareth’s birthday and add our names to the legions of former Oasis groups who have sought refuge in the same watering hole and left their mark on the walls.

Not sure what was our main motivation to stay out late, more beer or avoiding going to bed as the altitude added to the falling temperatures, although an improvised nest involving my sleeping bag and Moroccan rug ensured it was all nice and toasty, as long as the heavy dew did not intrude too much. Still no sign of the rug’s supposed aphrodisiac qualities mind.

The pattern of hot days, cold nights continued as we rolled into Harare and set up home in the back garden of Oasis’ African base, complete with workshop containing four other trucks and the equipment Gareth needed to give Nala some much-needed TLC.

Pure Heaven – Our base in Chimanimani

But as others struck out to investigate the delights of the capital city (once they had managed to get further than the Black Banana bar down the road), the garden became my home for much of the next few days – bar that rather longer than intended trip to the doctors.

Let’s get some things straight from the start. There was no crying out in pain. There was no squealing. There could easily have been (and nearly was), but there wasn’t. There was plenty of giggling, not all of which could be attributed to large quantities of painkillers injected in various parts of my body.

Once, that is, the doctor had turned up half an hour after the start of surgery, which remained devoid of other patients until he arrived, followed by a crowd of people who wanted his attention and providing the signal for his receptionist (who had also taken my blood pressure, then disappeared) to start relieving me of some dollars.

When he arrived, he conducted a thorough investigation which saw him fill first the rather large index card bearing my details and then the prescription form which was then handed to me with the instructions to go next door to the pharmacy, get everything on the lengthy list and head back so they could start administering them.

Which is when it all went a bit weird.

They were very polite and friendly in the pharmacy. But as quickly as the cashier got stuff off the shelves to fill the order, one of the pharmacists changed them for something else, only for the woman from the doctors – apparently not just a receptionist, but also the nurse (least hope so, given her later part in proceedings) – to repeatedly return, change the order and add things to the list.

And then started the discussion of just how much was needed. Was 10 bottles of antiseptic necessary (having gone halfway down one bottle in three days, suggest not)? And did we really want a whole litre of something nobody was sure was actually needed?

The doctor, it appeared, had decided we needed some extra to look after the rest of the group as the need arose. With me paying.

Finally we had it all worked out and, armed with a cardboard box full of drugs, ointments and dressings, it was back to the doctors and a treatment table set up with some worryingly sharp-looking bits of equipment.

Details of what happened next is all a bit hazy, mainly because of my desire to look anywhere but in the direction of what the doctor was doing with a long syringe and what appeared to be a razor blade.

What is clear is that the two injections of local anaesthetic (think my first for anything not involving teeth as all my stitches, both rugby and beer related, have been done without) hurt. A lot. An awful lot. That’s where there was very nearly a fair amount of screaming, but instead just a badly-bitten lip.

Thankfully, the injections worked and the actual cutting of the abscess was pretty straightforward, if rather disgusting, judging by the mess nobody appeared in a hurry to clear up. With the rest of my wounds treated, it was time for a couple more injections – not in the arm being proffered, but in my bum. Only having dropped my shorts did the nurse explain that rolling up my T-shirt would have been sufficient.

And so, with my wallet lightened, foot bandaged, box full of drugs under my arm and under orders to stay off my foot, they ushered me out the door and told me to walk 10 minutes down the road to drop off a sample at a lab.

Instead, it was a limp over the road to grab lunch, supplies for the next few days and a taxi down to the lab – the driver kindly waiting the half hour it took me to fill in a form, sit in a queue, be relieved of more money and have a previously unannounced blood test, before running me back to base and spending another 10 minutes running around everybody he could find in search of some change. All of which was highly amusing to somebody rammed full of antibiotics and painkillers.

And that was pretty much my Harare experience, up until our final night trip to a barbecue and drinks at the home of fellow traveller Kris’ sister Sophie and her boyfriend Giles, who works for the EU.

Not sure quite what was going through their minds when they kindly invited us lot back into polite society (with me struggling with my first experience of crutches dug out of the house by Mark, an Oasis tour leader recuperating from a joint bout of typhoid and malaria), but we were on our best behaviour as we did what comes naturally and huddled around the fire pit.

* The last mention of my ailing legs had several people asking about my well being, be it relatives, friends or staff at Oasis HQ. Believe me, I’m fine. The wounds are healing nicely and the heel – as long as it doesn’t have to bear too much weight for too long – doesn’t hurt that much. Most of the time. Hopefully, by the time we’ve actually got wi-fi to get this post published, it will all be cleared up. Now, did I mention my knee…



Turning Point – The view from the top of Table Mountain

“DID you get Ebola?”

Reactions among those who stumble across a big yellow truck and its inhabitants at the end of our five-month journey south have found it difficult to comprehend exactly what we have done. Let alone why.

And, having reached the turning point in Cape Town and starting the four-month trek back north to Cairo, it is still pretty difficult to get our heads around exactly what has happened, what we have seen, the experiences we have shared and the people we have met – fleetingly or as travelling companions – along the way.

The plan for this entry was always for it to be a reflective one, taking advantage of our break from the road in Cape Town to look back on the southbound leg of the journey and make some sort of sense of my impressions of Africa.

Several times the laptop was opened up with the intentions of writing, but one week, another country, a lot of sand and one broken tent (of which more in the next instalment) later, it remains difficult to order exactly what my thoughts are on Africa.

Looking Up – The view from the courtyard of our hostel in Cape Town

It is a place full of contradictions and frustrations, things that do not work and things which shouldn’t work, amazing experiences and people that can’t help but make you smile in delight or wonder, right alongside experiences and people who make you tear your hair out in annoyance.

This, after all, is Africa.

To sum it up in a few short phrases is nigh on impossible – and five months travelling through such a wide-ranging series of countries from the Arab north, sub-Saharan West Africa and the verdant, tropical chaos either side of the Equator to the relative modernity of the south is nowhere near enough to provide an authoritative view on this mystifying continent – but, hopefully, the jumble of thoughts which are fighting for priority in my head will somehow spill out onto the page in some form of coherent order over the coming weeks and months.

One thing for sure as we gear ourselves to rattle up the miles heading north – via a relaxed weekend back in Swakopmund, Namibia, which is providing possibly the last beds until Zanzibar – is that none of us have caught Ebola.

Malaria, yes. Cellulitis, yes. Any number of festering wounds, most definitely (the Manky Leg Club has been growing in numbers, although most of the problems which earned membership are clearing up after the rash of applications through the tropics). But Ebola, no.

It was the most-often raised topic before we set off and, having bypassed the infected areas (the detour producing memorable rewards in Mali and Cote D’Ivoire), we had all but forgotten about it until hitting the more common overland routes down south and running into fellow travellers heading towards the end or just starting out on their shorter trips down the more regular routes through the south and east of Africa which will form our next section.*

But more than once in the last couple of weeks, someone has asked us where we have come from, not expecting the answer Gibraltar. After checking that we hadn’t just flown from Europe to Cape Town, they almost inevitably raise the spectre of Ebola.

One group of overlanders rolled out of our accommodation this morning, but not until they had taken a few snapshots of Nala, quizzed their tour leader about whether we really were spending 40 weeks heading from London to Cape Town to Cairo (as emblazoned on her side) and whether any of us had died of Ebola.

Personally, think it would make a reality travel show. Instead of getting voted off the truck, passengers are removed one by one by illness until the last one standing (or breathing on their own) is declared the winner. Has the added advantage of losing contestants not becoming minor celebrities, albeit just for five minutes or until the next batch of wannabes fight for their 15 minutes of fame. Some things have not been missed.

But no, we have made it down south pretty much intact. One passenger was forced home by a case of cerebral malaria, while a few others have had to head home temporarily for personal reasons or off on brief trips away from the truck, rejoining us along the way, but we remain, largely, in one piece.

African Diet – Warthog ribs in Cape Town

Personally, as someone who set out on this adventure overweight and nowhere near as fit as planned, what was always billed as the most gruelling section of the journey has not been as physically draining as feared.

Even the cumulative effects of camping and lack of home comforts has failed to have too much of a negative impact – to the extent that the return to bush camping after the relative luxuries of Cape Town was welcome with almost universal delight, even when conditions conspired against us. But again, more of that in the next instalment.

Yes, there has been the two bouts of cellulitis – one in each leg – which laid me low for a few days each and has left its marks on my right calf and slightly swollen foot, forcing a pragmatic approach to some of the more strenuous activities, and one short, sharp attack each of the gout and back problems which have long dogged me.

But we head north with my body in pretty good shape. Certainly a more slimline shape, forcing a dash around Cape Town’s gleaming malls to stock up on new clothes – much to the delight of my fellow travellers, who now don’t have to watch me constantly pulling up my trousers that are now way too big, despite the creation of two new holes in a belt.

The sudden appearance of large platefuls of meat (kudu steaks lead warthog ribs in the best game meat stakes), not to mention plentiful supplies of cold beer, in Namibia and South Africa threatens to derail the weight loss, but having got into a pair of shorts four inches smaller than the ones which left Britain with me, the Trans Africa diet should really be used by Oasis as part of their marketing campaign.

And it has not come on starvation rations.

Perfect Timing – Ale collected a special Malcolm award in Cape Town , the victim of a practical joke all the way from Accra

There have been a few complaints about the food, but my diet has probably never been so good. Certainly it has never included so many vegetables. And at no point since my early teenage years – far too long ago – has breakfast featured on a daily basis, while my self-imposed rule about keeping snacks to a minimum and not stockpiling food on the truck has certainly helped.

Any criticism of the food is squarely down to our shortcomings as cooks rather than the amount or what we have been eating.

Admittedly, we do keep falling back on the same few recipes (my cook teams have a tendency to specialise in anything to do with potatoes, occasionally for all three meals), but there has barely been a really bad meal, unless you are a particularly fussy eater.

And considering we have largely been shopping in West African markets for meals cooked on a camp fire, you cannot be that fussy.

Certainly the two rules – make sure it is edible and make sure there is enough – have been followed throughout and there is usually a pretty rapid queue formed for seconds.

But there is no getting away from the fact, this trip is not always easy. It is a long time to be away from friends, family and home comforts. It is a long time to spend with the same group of people – strangers when we climbed on board the truck, be it in Gibraltar, Accra or, for the newbies, Cape Town.

And there are long periods on the  truck to sit, think and stew on any irritations (and as one of the group’s snorers, that brings a whole set of irritations when it comes to sleeping arrangements).

In a group of people this size – we were at 13 at our lowest, now up to a trip high of 20 – there are always going to be disagreements and the odd personality clash. There are times, at the end of a long drive day, when you climb off the back of the truck and want nothing to do with one or more of your fellow passengers.

But that is inevitable. How many people at work have rubbed you up the wrong way over the past five months? And that’s with the advantage of being able to go home at the end of the day.

We have been lucky with the mix of people we have, avoiding cliques or self-contained units and, after more than five months on the road, the overwhelming majority of us are still happy to share each other’s company and wander off in any number of combinations for an activity, drink or a meal.

These people are as big a part of this trip as Africa itself and the fact that we still go out in large numbers for meals shows how well we get along.

Right up to the point when it comes to sorting out the bill…

* At no point have we turned into travel snobs and referred to our fellow overlanders as amateurs, lightweights or bus wankers (remember, we are on a truck, most definitely not a bus). Well, not all that often.


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