Extract from Losing the Silver Spoon by James Wilson
We were filthy, exhausted and burnt from wind and sun, but exultant at having achieved the apparently impossible.
We collected Christmas mail waiting for us at Barclays Bank and changed money. Peter Best, a New Zealander stationed there, escorted me to a garage for Mini to receive some well-earned care and attention, including replacing four shock absorbers, fixing the petrol line and air blasting all her orifices; the holes in the floor and damaged bodywork remained. I had used all four spare tyres I purchased in Algiers, but had had no need for the nylon stockings. Peter then took me to his home where, for the first time in four months, I luxuriated in a hot bath. I went back to catch up with the others and persuaded them that we had to have a beer to bring in the New Year. We finished up in the exclusive Kano Club, carousing on almost till daybreak.
An added pleasure for me was that we were in an English-speaking country. There were many expats living in Kano, as well as the presence of English cars and customs and I so enjoyed talking in English using the terms I was accustomed to, such as pounds, shilling, pence, gallons and miles. (I now cope better with the decimal system.). But the character of the real Kano shone through with a significant palace housing the local king and royal family and the streets displaying a wide and exciting range of Northern and Southern Sahara races and modes of dress. Of note were the ‘high bred’ dressed in stately and bright attire, riding magnificent horses around the streets.
I treasured the kindness of Peter and his wife and their hospitality. I met many fascinating people there, although some suggested that I had not really crossed the Sahara. When Peter produced my tape recordings made on the journey, even I was stunned at how exhausted I sounded and the deniers were convinced.
My enjoyment was blighted by the discomfort of my German companions. They had not clicked, as I had, with the community and felt estranged. What was worse, they had met a German who told them that the Congo roads were shocking and that they should not be impeded by me for any longer. I was furious ‘We agreed in Cairo that we would travel together all the way to Nairobi. Now you are pulling out because of someone’s opinion on Congo roads. Has he crossed the Sahara? Has he driven in the Congo?’ ‘No, he hasn’t,’ they replied. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘What the hell does he know about it? It could hardly be worse than what we have been through.’
The row subsided. We agreed to travel together but staying on to enjoy more of the hospitality and conviviality was out of the question.
Driving out of Kano on a tar-sealed road created such a relaxing sensation that I had to remind myself that, despite the ease, I was still driving. To crash on a motorway after surviving the desert would be foolish.
We headed due west and after a couple of days’ travel, we arrived at Maiduguri, stumbling on an open space where families were scattered around cooking shish-kebabs on bamboo sticks set in the ground around nests of red hot embers. Struck by the peaceful scene of children playing and adults minding the food and fires, we wandered into the space. We were offered warm greetings, a space by the fires and delicious spicy morsels. The sight and tastes have never left me
From Maiduguri, we continued west, skirting Lake Chad – a huge, fascinating lake, memorable for the ebb and flow of its size. Villages built on massive grass islands floated when the lake rose and canoes were used; when the lake receded, people would walk between grounded villages. Huge flocks of birds flew above and around the lake. Magnificent murmurations of birds would fly overhead, darkening the sky then, like fish in a school, they would turn, letting the light back in, as an adjusted Venetian blind brightens a room.
Lake Chad is now an African tragedy. In 1963 it was as large as it ever got in that era. Today it is a pitiful puddle with four adjoining countries squandering its water.
Getting to Fort Lamy, now called N’Djamena, involved moving in, then out, of Cameroon, into Chad Republic. From there we turned south and drove on deteriorating dirt roads, with massive truck-made ruts and potholes. Strangely Mini performed better than the others as, with front wheel drive, I could often nimbly avoid falling into the abysses.
We passed through many villages, occasionally stopping to buy food. At one stop a major language barrier left us trying hard to describe eggs that we wished to purchase. We were completely misunderstood and were staggered to learn that we had been negotiating for a night with one of the chief’s wives. Let alone the danger, none of them were of an age or appearance that appealed. We finally got our eggs.
On the way to Fort Archambault, now called Sarh, we met up with four Brits, a married couple and two men. They had started off with two Jeeps, but running out of funds, Pete and Bill sold theirs. Now the remaining Jeep had a broken steering rod. Our convoy of four dust-covered and dented vehicles drifted into the remote and dusty town, with the Jeep wandering around like a wall-eyed drunk. We found a garage where Mini’s generator bearing was replaced for free and the Jeep’s steering rod welded up for a pittance. The French owner also offered us all a shower and space to camp for the night.
Continuing on dreadfully rutted roads, through the Central African Republic border, the 10 of us finally reached the capital, Bangui. The city, the capital of the Central African Republic, is set on the edge of the Ubangi River. Then it was notable for its humble size and the disproportionate magnitude of the embassies centred there. The central square, with a fountain, was surrounded by low buildings other than a dominating US embassy and a ‘cultural centre’. The streets were tar-sealed and clean, but all around was dense jungle, with three dirt roads leading away to the north, east and west. The multiple embassies were placed there because of the proximity to the Belgian Congo, now somewhat euphemistically called the Democratic Republic of the Congo, just across the river. There appeared to be no information from across the Ubangi and the staff had little to do and, without driving out on treacherous roads, nowhere to go.
Once we had set up a camp, Koko and I went into the city to see if we could bluff our way into a swimming pool. We did exceptionally well, and managed to get ourselves invited into a salubrious expat club. When we returned with the good news our other German companions complained, ‘We don’t want to feel on the outer, like we did in Kano’. I pointed out that if they didn’t take the opportunities as they arose, it would be Kano all over again. Tension was averted and we enjoyed the luxury of a crystal-clear swimming pool with drinks shouted by various embassy staff, who were interested in our story. Once again it was interesting to observe Koko’s willingness to move outside our little circle, but the others were not so inclined.
It was at this club that I met Shelley, an American, and her English husband, both of whom worked for the American Embassy. They were particularly kind, offering us showers and an introduction to the social life of expat Bangui. I struck up a good friendship with Shelley and Jack, which led to invitations to drinks and dinner parties but once again the others felt excluded. However, we all shared the same ambition, which was to cross the river and drive south-east through Belgian Congo.
We collected Christmas mail waiting for us at Barclays Bank and changed money. Peter Best, a New Zealander stationed there, escorted me to a garage for Mini to receive some well-earned care and attention, including replacing four shock absorbers, fixing the petrol line and air blasting all her orifices; the holes in the floor and damaged bodywork remained. I had used all four spare tyres I purchased in Algiers, but had had no need for the nylon stockings. Peter then took me to his home where, for the first time in four months, I luxuriated in a hot bath. I went back to catch up with the others and persuaded them that we had to have a beer to bring in the New Year. We finished up in the exclusive Kano Club, carousing on almost till daybreak.
An added pleasure for me was that we were in an English-speaking country. There were many expats living in Kano, as well as the presence of English cars and customs and I so enjoyed talking in English using the terms I was accustomed to, such as pounds, shilling, pence, gallons and miles. (I now cope better with the decimal system.). But the character of the real Kano shone through with a significant palace housing the local king and royal family and the streets displaying a wide and exciting range of Northern and Southern Sahara races and modes of dress. Of note were the ‘high bred’ dressed in stately and bright attire, riding magnificent horses around the streets.
I treasured the kindness of Peter and his wife and their hospitality. I met many fascinating people there, although some suggested that I had not really crossed the Sahara. When Peter produced my tape recordings made on the journey, even I was stunned at how exhausted I sounded and the deniers were convinced.
My enjoyment was blighted by the discomfort of my German companions. They had not clicked, as I had, with the community and felt estranged. What was worse, they had met a German who told them that the Congo roads were shocking and that they should not be impeded by me for any longer. I was furious ‘We agreed in Cairo that we would travel together all the way to Nairobi. Now you are pulling out because of someone’s opinion on Congo roads. Has he crossed the Sahara? Has he driven in the Congo?’ ‘No, he hasn’t,’ they replied. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘What the hell does he know about it? It could hardly be worse than what we have been through.’
The row subsided. We agreed to travel together but staying on to enjoy more of the hospitality and conviviality was out of the question.
Driving out of Kano on a tar-sealed road created such a relaxing sensation that I had to remind myself that, despite the ease, I was still driving. To crash on a motorway after surviving the desert would be foolish.
We headed due west and after a couple of days’ travel, we arrived at Maiduguri, stumbling on an open space where families were scattered around cooking shish-kebabs on bamboo sticks set in the ground around nests of red hot embers. Struck by the peaceful scene of children playing and adults minding the food and fires, we wandered into the space. We were offered warm greetings, a space by the fires and delicious spicy morsels. The sight and tastes have never left me
From Maiduguri, we continued west, skirting Lake Chad – a huge, fascinating lake, memorable for the ebb and flow of its size. Villages built on massive grass islands floated when the lake rose and canoes were used; when the lake receded, people would walk between grounded villages. Huge flocks of birds flew above and around the lake. Magnificent murmurations of birds would fly overhead, darkening the sky then, like fish in a school, they would turn, letting the light back in, as an adjusted Venetian blind brightens a room.
Lake Chad is now an African tragedy. In 1963 it was as large as it ever got in that era. Today it is a pitiful puddle with four adjoining countries squandering its water.
Getting to Fort Lamy, now called N’Djamena, involved moving in, then out, of Cameroon, into Chad Republic. From there we turned south and drove on deteriorating dirt roads, with massive truck-made ruts and potholes. Strangely Mini performed better than the others as, with front wheel drive, I could often nimbly avoid falling into the abysses.
We passed through many villages, occasionally stopping to buy food. At one stop a major language barrier left us trying hard to describe eggs that we wished to purchase. We were completely misunderstood and were staggered to learn that we had been negotiating for a night with one of the chief’s wives. Let alone the danger, none of them were of an age or appearance that appealed. We finally got our eggs.
On the way to Fort Archambault, now called Sarh, we met up with four Brits, a married couple and two men. They had started off with two Jeeps, but running out of funds, Pete and Bill sold theirs. Now the remaining Jeep had a broken steering rod. Our convoy of four dust-covered and dented vehicles drifted into the remote and dusty town, with the Jeep wandering around like a wall-eyed drunk. We found a garage where Mini’s generator bearing was replaced for free and the Jeep’s steering rod welded up for a pittance. The French owner also offered us all a shower and space to camp for the night.
Continuing on dreadfully rutted roads, through the Central African Republic border, the 10 of us finally reached the capital, Bangui. The city, the capital of the Central African Republic, is set on the edge of the Ubangi River. Then it was notable for its humble size and the disproportionate magnitude of the embassies centred there. The central square, with a fountain, was surrounded by low buildings other than a dominating US embassy and a ‘cultural centre’. The streets were tar-sealed and clean, but all around was dense jungle, with three dirt roads leading away to the north, east and west. The multiple embassies were placed there because of the proximity to the Belgian Congo, now somewhat euphemistically called the Democratic Republic of the Congo, just across the river. There appeared to be no information from across the Ubangi and the staff had little to do and, without driving out on treacherous roads, nowhere to go.
Once we had set up a camp, Koko and I went into the city to see if we could bluff our way into a swimming pool. We did exceptionally well, and managed to get ourselves invited into a salubrious expat club. When we returned with the good news our other German companions complained, ‘We don’t want to feel on the outer, like we did in Kano’. I pointed out that if they didn’t take the opportunities as they arose, it would be Kano all over again. Tension was averted and we enjoyed the luxury of a crystal-clear swimming pool with drinks shouted by various embassy staff, who were interested in our story. Once again it was interesting to observe Koko’s willingness to move outside our little circle, but the others were not so inclined.
It was at this club that I met Shelley, an American, and her English husband, both of whom worked for the American Embassy. They were particularly kind, offering us showers and an introduction to the social life of expat Bangui. I struck up a good friendship with Shelley and Jack, which led to invitations to drinks and dinner parties but once again the others felt excluded. However, we all shared the same ambition, which was to cross the river and drive south-east through Belgian Congo.