From the journal of our president, Dick Houston, adventurer extraordinaire.

Safari Journal entries penned daily while on trans-Africa overland expeditions – my scribblings continued at night by the flickering light of a smoky kerosene lantern, continually dive-bombed by kamikaze moths beating against the glass.

                                           CARRY ON WILD ROVER

A rather sluggish day, driving a land Rover through the seemingly endless Congo jungle. Aiming for ENGLAND! The overloaded Land Rover, christened WILD ROVER, was sliding all over the narrow muddy track under the dark-green jungle tunnel.

Grinding along in a growling first gear,Wild Rover gamely carried on. The black greasy mud was trying desperately to suck us under to bury us. My British safari partner, Gordon, and I thought at one point we were going to tip over the vehicle.

There were two foot deep ditches down the middle. A sudden tropical downpour was obliterating most of the track. Then the rain stopped as fast as it started, as though turning off a spigot.

Trying to steer around the deeper ruts, we veered too late into another ditch on our right slipping into giant tire tracks, evidently gouged from a heavy transport truck that staggered through days earlier.

Our journey originated in Nairobi, Kenya. the purpose was to explore virgin territories for our small safari business named Afritrek, based in Bradford, England.

Our destination was Bradford, 10,000 miles away. The Wild Rover would eventually take us across the ‘fearful void’ of the Sahara desert. We knew the risks. There would be no Triple-A tow trucks, no Life Flight helicopters dropping from the sky in case of injuries.

The mud was evil, unforgiving. The Wild Rover churned through the sludge, its wheels spinning and whining, trying to get a grip. Suddenly the vehicle veered to the left and came to a jolting halt in a pit, almost turning on its side. It was teetering at a 45 degree angle, the right front wheel up in the air. Steam rose in white clouds from the overheated radiator. Gordon grabbed a thermos and two cups strapped to the dash, then pushed against the weight of the right hand front door. We climbed out, and dropped down into the shin deep mud. We slogged through the slop to the side of the track. We sat down on some solid earth to the side.

The tunnel of the jungle now felt claustrophobic, closing in on us. It had become an open air prison. We stared glassy eyed at the now beached Wild Rover. The situation looked hopeless. Gordon unscrewed the cap on the thermos to pour tea into the cups. Did I taste a hint of gin. Emergency rations of course. We did not say a word. Insects hummed their monotonous one note in the surrounding green tapestry of trees and monkey vines.

An hour later two African men suddenly appeared, wearing t-shirts and shorts navigating through the mud maze in their bare feet. We offered them cash and shovels to help dig Wild Rover out of the tar pit. Immediately the four of us were digging, clawing in the mud, hour after hour. panting, digging, panting, digging in a hundred degree steam bath heat. Losing buckets of sweat. Wild Rover refused to budge. The pushing, panting, pushing until we heard a loud POP. Gordon a crack mechanic, dropped his head and groaned. He knew what the sound was. “The rear differential’s GONE”. That was the bad news. The “good” news: the front wheel differential was intact.

But we still had thousands of miles to go through the Congo, the Central Africa Republic, Cameroon, edge of Chad, Niger, Algeria,Morocco, Spain, France and through southern England. And the Wild Rover wasn’t even out of its mud cocoon yet. Could we possibly make it all the way to England? Limping along only on front wheel drive, in an aging, overloaded safari vehicle?

I did not want to think ahead to the burning sands of the Sahara Desert. Nicknamed the Great Thirst….

{To be continued}

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