the Journal 1
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Sunday 15th August

The drive to Dover was fairly uneventful but in our minds we were racing ahead through deserts and jungles, over the Danube and the Nile. The majority of the motoring population on the M25 appeared to be in full support of the expedition with many hoots of appreciation, waves and even pictures taken from some. One Porsche driver, however, did feel it necessary to wind down his window and shout “You d!*k” at us as he drove past, but that just confirmed Andy’s view of Porsche drivers.

As we reached Dover we incurred a quick slap on the wrists for filming the immigration officers for which we pleaded ignorance until he pointed to the 10 foot sign above us reading, unsurprisingly, ‘Customs’, in big letters. We were herded into the ferry queue remarkably quickly and were more than a little concerned as the bus passed into the lower deck with barely centimetres of room between the top of the bus and the roof of our deck. This was by no means the last time the height of the bus instilled abject fear into us.

After a rapid crossing the realisation that the adventure was actually happening dawned on us, and there would be no turning back. We arrived in Calais at 21:20. Barry drew the short straw and was the first to drive on the wrong side of the road, something that none of us had ever done before. It has (so far) presented us with no problems, which is just as well because we will have to drive like this for the next 15,000 miles to Cape Town.

We had no official confirmation from either France or Germany that a 4.4m bus would pass under their bridges, but some friendly and somewhat bemused truck drivers assured us we would be fine. However, as one trucker put it as he scanned his eyes over our ride “Whatever you do, DON’T get off the motorway”. Nonetheless, we all adopted the tactic of slowing to approximately 30mph, taking our foot off the accelerator as a bridge approached. What this course of action would do should we have hit a bridge was not entirely clear, as a nine tonne bus colliding with a concrete bridge at any speed would still somewhat scupper our plans to say the least. We have all taken to instinctively ducking as we pass under what seem like the lower bridges, which again would probably do little to save the bus.

We drove into the night through the WW2 battlefields in Northern France and eventually turned in at 05:00. As we looked at the map to note our progress after 8 hours of continuous driving, our meagre progress across our European road map revealed for the first time how slow our maximum of 38mph was.

For the first two weeks at least we have adopted the lives of truck drivers, sleeping in service stations flanked by HGVs and articulated lorries. We showered in the services and cursed the tolls on the roads, while trying to avoid the fast food which seems to have ubiquitous prices the world over, extortionate. Our expedition has attracted much attention from all kinds of road users, from truckers and holiday makers to the US Army Medical Corps, who we met at a service station near Nuremberg. The number of offers of small contributions actually prompted us to fashion a donations box for IMPACT, the first charity we are working for in Kenya. The main topic of conversation is, of course, the reason for our expedition, and we are beginning to tire of telling. Some even ask where we are going, which we find a little strange as it clearly states on the front and back of the bus ‘Cape Town’.

Whilst travelling through Germany we successfully incurred the wrath numerous German truck drivers who repeatedly focused their claxons on us, flashed us, and even gestured some rude hand signals - but we didn’t know what they meant - nor did we particularly care, trying to ignore the tail back of a kilometre or more on the autobahn. Pulling into the larger service stations was a little strange, as we became a kind of travelling freak show, coach loads of tourists were snapping away in clusters pretending not to watch our every move, as we made dinner or a cup of tea. Just like wild beasts, as soon as we tried to film them watching us, they all disappeared.

We made it to Prague in good time, managing to drive straight into the heart of the old town, squeezing under tramlines and bridges, and parked by a youth hostel. That night we ventured into Prague and spent the evening soaking up the Czech youth culture, complete with the mandatory litre glasses of lager. The following day was spent enjoying the best of Prague, investigating the main old square, Charles Bridge, and the impressive castle complex. The backpacking population of Europe passed by our bus on their way to the hostel expressing a variety of reactions, laughs and questions, the most ridiculous of which was provided by a German, “Where are you going, and how are you getting there?”, as he stared at the destination board on the front of the bus. That night provided the first signatories of our bus bar by four backpacking Brits off to Croatia.

Our much needed lie-in was rudely disturbed the following rainy morning by a Czech policeman wishing to issue a parking ticket. We stalled, claimed ignorance and feigned understand until he gave up and made us move. We drove around the block and re-parked.

Later we left for Bratislava, the Slovakian capital, stopping for supplies from a supermarket shop along the way. At the border we escaped a large fine for not having bought motorway coupons by once again professing ignorance (true), and arrived late into the evening in Bratislava. We were understandably nervous given our woefully inadequate maps of European cities, especially regarding bridges, and before we knew it we were blindly roaring across the Danube, lost. Eventually we managed to negotiate the correct bridge successfully, parking centrally by the Danube.

The following day we strolled around the quaint city centre of Bratislava and up to the impressive looking castle, from which the view revealed endless identical tower-blocks on the southern banks of the Danube. We were invited by a vague contact to drive to one of these monstrosities nestled just 500m from the Austrian border. For years this family had been able to see Austria and receive Austrian television, but unable to live a free life under Communism. Now life was prospering. In the apartment car park, now more than ever, our vehicle looked ridiculously out of place. As we pulled in, windows opened everywhere, with curious faces pointing and muttering. We were generously treated to a slap up meal and a hot shower by the family of our Slovakian webmaster based in England. Our evening entertainment in the old town was provided by ‘The First Ever Black Party In Bratislava’, a novel blend of alcohol, black face paint and bad taste.

We crossed the Hungarian border without incident, but the stares, smiles and blaring car horns continued as we sped towards Budapest. On the outskirts we crossed under our lowest point yet, a totally random thick metal bar across the motorway surely no more than 4m high.

Entering the city from the South West, we drove through unattractive brown and grey suburbs on an appalling main road. Budapest’s centre was bustling with crowds of tourists and businessmen interspersed amongst the fine architecture. Before we knew it, the Serbian border post was in sight. We were hindered by only having a credit card with which to pay the fleecing Serbian taxes. The only solution was a 20km, illegal, sojourn into rural Serbia to locate a cash point. Once again our sleep on the ever more sweltering upper deck of the Routemaster was interrupted at 4 am by the police, with a ridiculous fine for parking to close to the road. There was no escaping this penalty. Our dislike of Serbia was further enhanced by the 40km diversion we were forced to take around Belgrade to avoid their low bridges. The following morning the Routemaster, which by now appeared to have a variable height range despite clearly being 4.4m, crept under 13 consecutive tunnels on the way into Bulgaria, the lowest of which read 3.9m. The discussion the previous night had been whether to attempt this Serbian warren with our height or whether Macedonia would have to be an unscheduled detour.

In Bulgaria our average speed increased as the roads improved and on the outskirts of Sofia we chanced on Vlady, a man who escorted us to safe city parking, and fabricated typed British diplomatic statuses in Bulgarian to ensure our taxi drivers would not overcharge us. The Bulgarians were friendly and looked on the bus and its destination with a mix of curiosity and incomprehension.

Inside, meanwhile, the temperature is rising to well over 300c, and the zoo of small insects upstairs ever-increasing. Despite this, the bus is running well, we are well fed, and all is going to plan. The Turkish border and the Middle Eastern leg of our expedition await. We press on with a healthy mix of careful anticipation and blind optimism. Fingers crossed.

Friday 27th August

Our habit of midnight border crossings continued with our transition from Bulgaria into Turkey, coupled with a good deal of bureaucracy and heavy taxation. We were moved on from our parking place the following morning by the police (again, after similar events in the Czech Republic and Serbia) only to see one of our 6 foot ‘African Job’ signs fly from the side of the bus onto the motorway. It was without trepidation that Andy cycled the wrong way back down the motorway to collect the sign from the middle lane, only to be apprehended by the military police, and driven back to the bus with no more than a slap on the wrists. In a service station just short of Istanbul we ran into an eccentric Dutch pensioner in a pink bandana. We bumped into each other a week later and travelled from central Turkey down to Syria together, our first travelling companion. He was similarly escaping from cosy North West Europe and planned to return the following year trough the Sahara in his Landrover.

Istanbul was the busiest city we had so far encountered, as we drove around searching for a parking place. As rush hour encroached we found ourselves unable to exit the city, persistently thwarted by tunnels, low bridges or tram lines. As we turned into a side road, a loud piercing screech could be heard as the bus destroyed the wheel arch of an oncoming van, and scratched the paintwork of a large car. Five hours of Turkish police nonsense later (with the help of Taylon, a Turkish student as translator), and we had resolved all problems, paid a fine for moving the vehicle from the exact scene of the accident, and powered across the Bosphorus, escaping Europe for Asia. For the next two days we were welcome as Taylon’s guests in Istanbul, as we searched for fuel filters for the bus, and had a break.

We gladly departed Istanbul, and headed for the ruins of the ancient civilisation of Troy, the site of the epic battle between the Greeks and the Trojans. As Homer would have it, Paris judged Aphrodite as the most beautiful Goddess, and in return was given the most beautiful woman on Earth, Helen, wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta. Paris, brother of Hector, stole her away to Troy, thus instigating the ten year war. The epic culmination of the war was the duel between Achilles and Hector outside the gates of Troy. Achilles was finally triumphant and his hatred of Hector was so great he took his eyes, tied him to his chariot and dragged him around the walls of Troy. This was to be Achilles’ final act, as Paris launched an arrow into his heel, thus killing him. The Greeks gifted the Trojans a large wooden horse, unbeknown to the Trojans, containing Greek soldiers, who opened the gates to let in the entire Greek army and ransacked Troy. The ruins however do not live up to the legend, and the remains are poor, in part due to an over-zealous German archaeologist and a nineteenth century digger.

Further south, the extremely well preserved Roman town of Ephesus had more to offer, including an impressive amphitheatre with a capacity of 24,000 and a colonnaded street. Again it teemed with European sightseers and frail, aged Americans puffing up the hills. There was a large covered section and a sign saying “Reconstructive work”; the merit of rebuilding ancient sites and the fine line between restoration and destruction seems to be a fairly hot topic of conversation amongst Turkish archaeologists!

Cappadoccia was next on the list, taking two fairly arduous days of driving to reach Göreme and Penis valley. Göreme was a site founded by early Christians fleeing from Roman persecution, consisting of a city cut into the sandstone rock structures that have formed in that part of Turkey. The number of rock churches almost outnumbered the houses seemingly allowing a private church for each family. We spent the majority of the day scrambling in and around these rock settlements of which there appeared no end, but as the sun started to dip we climbed aboard our mobile home (which incidentally appeared to be coping with the heat much better than we were) and headed further south.

Our next port of call was the little known village of Çiftehan, known locally for its hot springs. Our arrival provided much consternation within the village, with backgammon games stopping, children running, and much excitement. The following day we were escorted up the hill, guided by the excited but persistent local children screaming ‘Hammam, hammam’, and purchased our tokens for a few dinar. Unsure of the local etiquette, we were escorted into the changing room where we donned our trunks simple but heavy clogs. Through the turnstiles and down a staircase (no mean feat in ill-fitting wet clogs), we apprehensively entered a large marble room with numerous sinks set at floor level interrupted by marble benches. The white walls were adorned at the far end with indecipherable crumbling lettering. Here, it seemed, we were to wash at the sinks whilst keeping our clogs on. After a matter of minutes we were ushered through an opening in the far corner into a steamy, grander room. Aside from the high whitewashed ceiling, this room was constructed entirely of marble, with a small clear blue pool lying centrally. There were two statuesque Turkish men in the pool absorbing the peacefulness of the location. It looked inviting enough to dive straight in. We took a seat at the far end of the pool, where steps guided the way into the motionless water, and slowly dipped our feet. These were not called thermal baths for nothing! Withdrawing our toes almost instantaneously with varying yelps and profanities, we looked at each other to verify what had just happened. It would not be possible to run a bath that hot. Our feet universally turned a floral shade of pink. Tingling set in at the finger tips, slowly working its way along our arms proximally. Head rushes ensued as if standing up having been bent over for ten minutes. The time had come to prove English resolve, and we strode briskly to the fourth step down into the scalding marbled bath. This was a crucial further increment as it condemned your genitals and possibly, therefore, your chances of having children (well, normal ones anyway). We slid to the bottom step and sank to our knees disregarding the natural reaction when dunked into a cooking pot to scream and run away. There’s no doubt that you became accustomed to the heat, but the pain on sunburnt feet persisted for hours afterwards. The only saving grace was the legendary kebab we bought following our bath!

With the sun at its height - a welcome break from our usual tendency to cross borders at midnight - we trundled towards the Syrian border the following day full of spook stories about taking in a vehicle. Not for the first time however did this throw up the problem of the midday sun and our bus. We had been advised before we left not to push her too hard in very hot temperatures - a piece of advice that we have been very bad at following - and the Syrian border was no exception. Once again our mode of transport caused much amusement and wonder from the trucking fraternity, which worked in our favour as we were offered numerous cups of (Turkish) tea and even given a few cans of beer from a convoy heading to Iraq. Our little adventure was somewhat humbled by these men who (through translation) told us that over four hundred Turkish lorry drivers have been killed in Iraq since the war ‘ended’.

Having safely negotiated the border, we headed for Aleppo, Syria’s second city, home to three million inhabitants. We explored the enormous citadel which looms large over the city, and then the impressive underground souk (the largest in the Middle East), where we bartered and bargained for cheap fruit, vegetables and spices. The day was rounded off by an authentic 13th century bath, where we sweated, were scrubbed and slapped around, all for under a fiver!

On the way south to Damascus we detoured via Crac des Chevaliers, the largest and best preserved crusader castle in the world, a 12th century relic of the Knights of St John. The road leading up to the castle was so steep at points as we crawled up painfully in first gear that it felt as if the bus would never make it to the top. Towards the summit, the handbrake of the bus was unable to hold its weight, until we finally surfaced onto a flat car park.

Damascus was a bustling cosmopolitan capital city, with little for the tourist to see apart from a wander around the old city and a visit to the large Umaayad Mosque. We mistakenly followed the advice of the Lonely Planet in search of a bar serving alcohol, only to find ourselves inside Damascus’ premier gay bar (not as advertised in the Lonely Planet!), from which we made a swift exit in search of a kebab and a taxi home.

From Damascus we headed further south across the Jordanian border and to the Dead Sea. The descent down to the Dead Sea, some 400m below sea level left the rear left brake smoking and burning with the heat, as we spent a humid sweltering night sweating by the sea. After a sunrise float we headed down the desert highway towards Petra, comfortably negotiating the bridges marked some 20cm below the height of the bus. For the first time we roared through the soaring desert heat across the barren landscape with sand and mountains stretching to the horizon in all directions.

Petra was hewn from pink rock deep in a valley in the southern Jordanian desert more than 2000 years ago by the Nabatean civilisation, and then added to by the Romans. It remains incredibly well preserved today with enormous and ornate carved buildings, the most impressive of which, The Treasury, towers over 30m above the ground.

Finally we have made our way to Aqaba at the southern tip of Jordan, where the Sinai peninsular of Egypt and Eilat in Israel all coalesce, and the end of our Middle Eastern journey. We are anxiously awaiting the cargo ferry tomorrow, and the short crossing to the port of Nuweiba on the eastern coast of the Egyptian Sinai desert. We have been told that we will be lucky to enter Egypt unscathed, and have heard stories of vehicles being impounded for months, and heavy fines. This is weighing heavily on our minds as we await the start of the African leg of our adventure.

We roll down the hill and for the first time can see the Red Sea. Aqaba is a tidy little port with a definite tourist hub set in neat little streets and the man business of the passenger and cargo ferries separated from the town by some distance