The Drums Of Africa – Johannesburg to London 1980

Soper Lodge, Johannesburg, 6 August 1980
Washing underpants and socks in the washbasin of a cheap hotel room. Back on the road again. Everything is 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 is broken. The curtains won’t reach across to cover the window, a bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. Alone. Desperately tired. And not even a fucking ashtray. Back on the road again.

The cost of staying in this luxurious hotel is five Rand. Well what did I expect for five Rand? And it includes dinner, bed, breakfast, and morning and afternoon tea. Dinner: vegetable soup – it’s okay; then a three-inch square of fish covered in white sauce with black blobs in it – I don’t eat it; canned sweetcorn in mushroom sauce mushy and tasteless – after three mouthfuls I don’t eat it; then steak and potatoes and boiled cabbage. Two mouthfuls of the potatoes before I notice the grey flecks in it – I don’t eat it. I don’t eat meat, and boiled cabbage is revolting under any circumstances; dessert is listed as steamed orange pudding but is actually crumbly ice cream (how old is it?) with peach jelly (jello). Living dangerously I eat the jelly.

An old man sits opposite me, bald with mottled pate and florid face he splutters and mumbles his way through the meal (eating everything!) all the while organizing and reorganizing all the things on the table.

The smell. Oh my god the smell. It permeates the entire building; boiled cabbage and stale piss. Well what can you expect for five Rand?

A few weeks earlier I’d been working in an iron ore mining town in the remote West Australian desert saving for my next adventure. In 1978 while on a four-month overland trip in South America I learned that I could do the same in Africa. That’s it! I’m doing that next!

At last it’s time. I fly to my childhood home in Canberra, find a brochure in a travel agency that advertises a four-month overland trip from Johannesburg to London with Exodus Expeditions leaving about mid-August. This is it. Preparations: visas, vaccinations, a new backpack, collecting all the things I’ll need, booking accommodation in Johannesburg. There’s no google; heck, there’s no internet. I probably found Soper Lodge in a book called “Someplace on a Shoestring”.

August 5th: lying in bed unable to sleep. In the morning I fly from Canberra to Perth to Johannesburg. I’m wide awake with a heady mix of trepidation and excitement.

The morning after the night in the sad Soper I take a train from Johannesburg to Port Elizabeth, now known by its original name: Gqeberha. The pronunciation is a guttural G which includes almost an r sound then bare ha. I’m pleased for this acknowledgement of the original inhabitants of the area, but I’ll never be able to pronounce it. In Port Elizabeth I stay a couple of nights with friends of friends who live in a wonderful iconic Cape Dutch house, a style of architecture that is local to South Africa and has roots in medieval Netherlands, Germany and France.





They invite friends over for a brai, the South African word for barbecue. We also go to the beach. I have photos of the rolling sand dunes, and these beautiful aloes.





I barely remember any of that whole trip. It’s a distance of 1000 kilometres each way, but I don’t take a single photo from the train.

Back in Johannesburg I book into the Allendene Hotel, recommended by Exodus, and meet some of the people I’ll be travelling with. The Allendene, though homey, is a significant upgrade from the sad Soper.

Among all the information I’m given by Exodus about the expedition there’s 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 isn’t really applicable. The road northwest to Gaborone in Botswana is good enough. We camp every night, getting used to the tent routine, and the cooking and camp-fire routine. And each other.

There’s Craig, the expedition leader, Brett his co-driver, and the six of us. Four more will join us in Nairobi in about a month.





We camp 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’m filled with wonder. I’m here! By the great grey-green greasy Limpopo River! Unexpectedly a childhood story has become a reality.

The campfire glows,
a thousand stories hidden deep within
and imagination takes over.
Africa lies ahead
and we all sit tentatively
reaching out to each other
slowly
a step at a time
testing . . . .

We follow 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 is no more than an old wooden platform with an engine attached. The following image shows a similar though slightly more primitive set-up in Central African Republic. Either way the ferry is a far cry from the fancy new bridge that exists today, likely financed by China.





We turn 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 885 metres (2,900 ft) 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 camp by the Zambezi River for two nights with the roar of the falls to lull us to sleep.

Zambezi River Sunset
wide blue rolling deep
we sit immersed in jungle green
the sun fairly glows above the trees
a circle of red paper pasted
onto the sky.

crackling twigs walk behind me.

the red-orange circle
slips slowly down spreading across the river
and the water is no longer blue,
but turned red-orange, turned cerise,
turned pink, turned mauve
advancing slowly towards us

and we all wait in deep silence
turned inwards
turned outwards
immersed.

the circle is halved, and halved again
spreading fire sparks
behind the trees

disappearing to blackness.

grey-mauve takes over
and all around
to the farthest reaches of the horizon
to the farthest depths of imagination
and back again
night sounds rise up from the earth.





From Victoria Falls it’s two or three days driving, stopping in Lusaka,











and other towns for groceries. It’s in Lusaka that I pick up postcards of these woodcut prints; powerful images of the people of Zambia trying to emerge from the yoke of colonialism. They are by Henry Tayali, Zambia’s most famous artist; multi-lingual painter, sculptor, printmaker, raconteur and lecturer.

Instead of going directly northeast to cross into Tanzania at Tunduma, we branch off and head northwest – to Kalambo Falls. Neither Brett nor Craig has been there but they’d heard good things about it. Located 24 kilometres from Mbala, even today Kalambo Falls is only accessible by 4x4s.

20 August 1980: We rise early as usual, pack up camp, head north towards the border then turn off the main road onto a dirt track. Steve and I sit up on the roof of the truck. Like this shot of Cameron, Steve, and Eric:





The feeling is indescribable, a clear view all round, sitting above the world; driving along the narrow dirt road, hills in the distance, blue-blue sky, trees surrounding red green and yellow, with thatched huts scattered in amongst them. And all the children come 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 bellow our way to isolated Kalambo Falls, very much off the overland route, surrounded by grey-green mountains and falls cascading down through 244 metres (800 ft). There is no one here but us.

We arrive at the top of the falls; they cascade down below us. What we don’t see is this – the view of Kalambo Falls from across the valley.

I’m first off the truck. I race down a small hill towards the falls and am stopped in my tracks. There’s a pool just a little below me,

and in it is a whole cartload of monkeys! I am filled with wide-eyed wonder. A little later I walk to the edge of the cliff and suddenly just below me a marabou stork flies out from its nest in the cliff-face, picks up the current and soars past, wings bent slightly downward at the tips, neck outstretched. More wide-eyed wonder. We walk around the top of the cliff; stand too close to the edge; watch the stork flying; look down over the falls as they hurtle down;





and look down, way down into the distant green tree tops below us – a frisson of fear, and a world of wonder.

And then I hear 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 is beating out from kraal to kraal that there are white people at the falls. The drums stir in me every story I’d ever heard about deepest darkest Africa. It’s eerie, disquieting, perhaps a little frightening, but at the same time thrilling and exciting. Soon they arrive, perhaps ten children and four or five men with spears and smiles and wide-eyed wonder to trade.

Later, joy of joys, I go 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 get myself clean from head to foot and then watch the sun set over the mountains.

Sitting round the fire into the night, Brett and Craig make bread to bake in the small brick oven at the site;








desultory conversation, silence, laughter, the fire glows, and fresh baked crusty bread late at night before bed, my sleeping bag warm and cosy, wind slapping the tent.








Next post: Tanzania – a game park, thieves in the night, Dar es Salaam, and a drunken birthday by the beach in Bagamoyo.
And in future posts not country specific – organisation of chores, food and food stocks, cooking, personalities, getting clean, and staying safe.

Disclosure:
1. I’ve changed the names of everyone involved for privacy
2. Obviously any photo with me in it was taken by another member of the group, but I’ve no idea who.





All words and images by Alison Louise Armstrong unless otherwise noted
© Alison Louise Armstrong and Adventures in Wonderland – a pilgrimage of the heart, 2010-2024.