Alison Armstrong and Don Read are self-proclaimed nomads – travelling through the world, and through life, feeling their way by the tips of their fingers. Now both in their seventies, wanderlust took hold of them decades ago and their passion for travelling, discovering and telling their stories is as strong as ever. In 1980, their adventurous spirit brought them to Africa as they made their way from Johannesburg to London, travelling by ex-army truck and camping.
They were not sightseeing, though they did see some incredible sights. Their goal was to see and experience Africa from south to north by whatever route was open. Four months, twelve people, one truck, 15 countries and 18 000km. They share their memories of this unforgettable adventure, in their own words.
It was 6 August 1980. I was in Johannesburg, washing underpants and socks in the washbasin of a room at Soper Lodge. Everything was run-down and dirty, including me. Desperately tired, jet lag strikes with deadly accuracy: eyes sore, head hazy. Threadbare blankets, no towel, no plug for the wash basin, cobwebs, and the wardrobe door was broken. The curtains wouldn’t reach across to cover the window and a bare bulb hung from the ceiling.
The cost of staying in this luxurious hotel was R5. Well, what did I expect for R5? And it included dinner, bed, breakfast, and morning and afternoon tea. Dinner consisted of vegetable soup, followed by a three-inch square of fish covered in white sauce with black blobs in it and canned sweetcorn in mushroom sauce. Next on the menu was steak, potatoes and boiled cabbage. I gulped down two mouthfuls of the potatoes before I noticed the grey flecks in it, and I pushed it aside. I don’t eat meat, and boiled cabbage is revolting under any circumstances, so I pinned all my hopes on dessert. This was listed as steamed orange pudding but was actually crumbly ice cream with peach jelly. Living dangerously, I ate the jelly.
The next morning, I took a train from Johannesburg to Port Elizabeth, now known by its original name: Gqeberha. I barely remember any of that whole trip. It’s a distance of 1 000km either way, but I didn’t take a single photo from the train. Back in Johannesburg I booked into the Allendene Hotel, recommended by Exodus, and met some of the people I’d be travelling with. The Allendene, though homey, was a significant upgrade from the sad Soper.
Among all the information I was given by Exodus about the expedition there was this little gem that really says everything: “It is essential to be mentally prepared for an African expedition, and part of that preparation consists of the realisation that once out in the depths of Africa there is no such thing as an itinerary or a schedule. There is only an objective – to get to your destination by whatever route is open.”
Initially this wasn’t really applicable. The road northwest to Gaborone in Botswana was good enough. We camped every night, getting used to the tent, cooking and campfire routine. And each other. There was Craig, the expedition leader, Brett his co-driver, and six of us. Four more would be joining us in Nairobi in about a month.
We camped by the great grey-green greasy Limpopo River, a description made so famous by Rudyard Kipling that I can’t think of the Limpopo without it. Just the idea of it and I was filled with wonder. I’m here! By the great grey-green greasy Limpopo River!
We followed the river north towards Francistown, passing several villages along the way, until eventually crossing the Zambezi River, and the border, into Zambia at Kazungula. The ferry across the river was no more than an old wooden platform with an engine attached, a far cry from the fancy new bridge that exists today.
We turned east to Livingston, the gateway to Victoria Falls, and the first real highlight of the trip. Victoria Falls is part of the mighty Zambezi River, which forms the border between Zimbabwe and Zambia; Zimbabwe to the west and Zambia to the east. At 105m tall, it is considered to be the world’s largest sheet of falling water, inevitably accompanied by a thundering roar, though I remember being more impressed by Iguazu Falls in Brazil; perhaps it was the butterflies. Still, there’s no denying Victoria Falls is pretty phenomenal. We camped by the Zambezi River for two nights with the roar of the falls to lull us to sleep.
From Victoria Falls was two- or three-days’ driving, stopping in Lusaka, and other towns for groceries. Instead of going directly northeast to cross into Tanzania at Tunduma, we branched off and headed northwest – to Kalambo Falls. Neither Brett nor Craig had been there, but they’d heard good things about it. Located 24km from Mbala, even today Kalambo Falls is only accessible by 4×4.
On August 20th we rose early (as usual), packed up camp, headed north towards the border and then turned off the main road onto a dirt track. Steve and I sat up on the roof of the truck. The feeling was indescribable – a clear view all round, sitting above the world as we drove along the narrow dirt road, hills in the distance, blue-blue sky, trees of red, green and yellow, and thatched huts scattered in amongst them.
All the children came running to the side of the road to watch us go by, shouting and waving and dancing, bright eyes and white teeth flashing. And we are shouting too, and singing at the tops of our voices, screaming and yahooing at the world, at the beautiful scenery, sunny sky, joy and freedom of being on the road. And so, we bellowed our way to isolated Kalambo Falls, very much off the overland route, surrounded by grey-green mountains and falls cascading down through 244m. There was no one there but us.
I was first off the truck. I raced down a small hill towards the falls and stopped in my tracks. There was a pool just a little below me, and in it was a whole cartload of monkeys! I was filled with wide-eyed wonder. A little later I walked to the edge of the cliff and suddenly just below me a marabou stork flew out from its nest in the cliff-face, picked up the current and soared past, wings bent slightly downward at the tips, neck outstretched. More wide-eyed wonder. We walked around the top of the cliff, standing too close to the edge as we watched the stork flying and looked down over the falls as they hurtled down into the distant green tree tops below us – a frisson of fear, and a world of wonder.
And then I heard the drums, echoing and reverberating throughout the mountains, rhythms settling in and then changing, an audible smoke-signal. We’d heard that many of the people in this area had never seen white people and now the message was beating out from kraal to kraal that there were white people at the falls. The drums stirred in me every story I’d ever heard about deepest darkest Africa. It was eerie, disquieting, perhaps a little frightening, but at the same time thrilling and exciting. Soon they arrived, perhaps ten children and four or five men with spears and smiles and wide-eyed wonder to trade.
Later, joy of joys, I went to the pool at the top of the falls to bathe. Heaven! One of the great joys of travelling this way is that ordinary everyday things such as washing become special treats. So, I got myself clean from head to foot and then watched the sun set over the mountains.
Sitting round the fire into the night, Brett and Craig made bread to bake in the small brick oven at the site; desultory conversation, silence, laughter, the glow of the fire, and fresh baked crusty bread late at night before bed. My sleeping bag was warm and cosy as the wind slapped the tent.
*Copy and images used with the permission of Alison Armstrong and Don Read. Visit https://alisonanddon.com/ to read more about their adventures.
