This is the fifth instalment of a four-month trans-Africa trip from Johannesburg to London that I did with Exodus Expeditions in 1980, travelling by ex-army truck and camping. We were not sightseeing, though we did see some incredible sights. Our goal was to see and experience Africa from south to north by whatever route was open. Four months. Twelve people. One truck. Fifteen countries. 18,000 kilometres. Links to the earlier posts are listed at the end of this one.

 

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The days are long hot thirsty bumpy dusty monotonous crabby tiring uncomfortable, the truck continually bumping and swaying, the crates of beer and coke slide up and down the aisle, we get on each others’ nerves, we are all lethargic. The heat is vindictive and incessant. We are always filthy. It is only two days since Eliye Springs and the beach at Lake Turkana and already I dream of it. This is like some form of torture. Maybe I’m a masochist. I wonder why I am here . . . . .

I know now why I am here. We finally stop to camp, the sun nearly down, the cool of the evening coming, and I wander off into the scrub with a bowl of water (my precious one litre ration allowed for washing) and sponge off the worst of the dirt. I wander back to camp. No cooking or washing-up duty tonight.

The desert is criss-crossed by dry river beds known as luggas where there is a greater profusion of trees and shrubs. We are camped in one. Us and the mosquitoes. They are a menace for the first time. I sleep outside on my camp bed and christen my new mosquito net, tucking it in all around underneath. There’s a soft breeze. Here in this largely uninhabited part of the world, after everyone is in bed, the darkness is absolute. All is well. Sleep comes.

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These days it’s extremely dangerous to drive in South Sudan due to armed robbery, violent attacks and poor driving standards. Most roads are dirt; narrow, rutted, and poorly maintained. Very few are surfaced, particularly outside Juba, the capital, and in 2024 South Sudan remains in a serious humanitarian crisis. Political conflict, compounded by economic woes and drought, has caused massive displacement, raging violence and dire food shortages.

Except for the roads, which were indeed unpaved, narrow, rutted, and neglected, it was a different story in 1980. Since Sudan first gained independence from the United Kingdom in 1956 there have been only eleven years of peace. The clash of cultures, religions and ethnicities has led to nearly fifty years of civil war. Somehow we hit the sweet spot, if you can call it that, between a time of uncontrolled violence and war, and relative peace. Another civil war began in 1983.

Possibly the frustration and anger the people were feeling is quietly seething underneath, but we really have no idea what we’re driving into; perhaps Craig, our leader does, but we’re blissfully ignorant of the possible dangers. And we experience a Sudan that is difficult travelling, but affords us some lovely experiences with the people who live there.

Driving northwest from Eliye Springs, soon after Nakodok in Kenya, we cross the border into Sudan. We avoid Uganda, then ruled by the insane and insanely cruel Idi Amin. South Sudan as a separate country does not yet exist. If we are to cross Africa, Sudan is a safer choice than through Uganda.

From the border we follow the winding dirt road west, always west, towards Central African Republic. The road winds a little north to Kapoeta, then dips south to Torit, then gradually north again to Juba where we stop for a rare meal out. From Juba north still, to Mundri, and then the road dips south again to Maridi, and further south to Yambio, and then turns north again, skirting along the border with Zaire, until finally near Ri Yubu we cross into Central African Republic. For all the north and south turns of the journey, our direction is west, always west. We are heading across the deep heart of Africa all the way to Cameroon when we will once again turn to face north, our goal being Spain and finally London.

Our first stop in Sudan is just past Kapoeta, about six or seven hours from Eliye Springs. Still daylight, we get camp established – tents down from the truck and erected, tables out, get a fire going, dinner prep under way. It is all routine by now. We create an enclave, a home for the night. Our bulwark is the truck, though we do not think of it in those terms. The tables are alongside it, tents spread around. Dark has fallen by the time dinner is served. It is rice, some vegetables, and those dire canned sausages. By now it is what we’re used to. There are no complaints, just the camaraderie of sitting eating together around the campfire in the dark in the middle of nowhere.

We have passed by villages during the day





but we are a long way from any of them now. Or perhaps not. Suddenly, quietly, a man, clad only in a tall spear and a piece of cloth strolls alone into camp. He is unabashedly naked; it is normal for him. We all smile and welcome him and he joins us, sitting on what the Turkana of northern Kenya, call an ekicholong. We don’t know whether or not he is Turkana, though probably not, this far into Sudan. Either way the stool is the same. It’s a small carved piece of wood used as a simple chair to avoid sitting directly on the hot desert sand, or as a headrest that helps keep their head off the ground and protects ceremonial head decorations. We offer him a little food which he politely accepts. We are all quietly enthralled, enlivened by this unexpected and authentic connection. Somehow we manage to communicate. He is curious about us, though what is most apparent is his quiet dignity. We are visitors in his land and he’s come to see who we are.

We notice that soon after eating he walks a little way from us to some nearby bushes and vomits. It’s not surprising that his body has a reaction to our food, ejecting it almost immediately. It is so foreign and processed; to his body it is poison.

Soon he takes his leave, and one by one we go to our tents and turn in for the night. Next morning, as we’re packing up, he returns with some members of his tribe.














Steve trades some personal items for a spear. He stows it in the long storage bins under the seats of the truck. I wonder if he still has it. I remember at one point he had it carefully sawn in half to get it through one customs point or another with the idea that he would have it rejoined once he got it home.

My heart does a little dance at the beautiful bead work on one of the girls’ skirts. Carefully stitched onto the leather in an organic pattern following the natural lines of the animal skin, I love the inherent thoughtfulness of it. There is no artifice here, just a simple conversation between beads and fabric. I want to trade her for it but can hardly ask her to take off her skirt.





Somewhere near Juba we eat out. It’s a memorable meal.

We drive to a bar and restaurant almost beyond the outskirts of the city for this rare treat. It’s such a welcome relief from our usual camp routine. We all pile inside and order food and beers. I have no memory of what we eat, only of what happens afterwards.

The building is long, low, and dilapidated, and sits on one side of a wide open space where we park the truck. We take turns staying with the truck; we would never leave it unattended in such a place. Off to one side is a western-style house. There’s nothing else around.

One by one we knock on the door of the house. There are two men there sitting comfortably having a quiet conversation. We politely ask if we can use their bathroom. It is an emergency. One by one we race down the hall reaching the bathroom just in time. Our bodies eject that food from both ends as quickly and forcefully as it can. What luck that that house is there, and that those men are so kind and accommodating. We are all drained. Literally. That’ll teach us to eat out. As best as I remember it is the only time any of us gets sick during all four months in Africa.

We continue heading west. Mosquitoes bug us in the evening and insects blow in on us all day. Sometimes there are quiet times to nap. There’s a net bag in the truck. I don’t know how it came to be there. No one seems to own it. Perhaps some kind of dry bulk food came in it at one point. Anyway it is stiff netting, not soft and floppy like a mosquito net. One day I see it and pull it over my head so I can nap without the insects and mosquitoes bugging me. It works.





From Juba it’s two more days travelling to the border with Central African Republic. We pass villages,











and one night camp in a “church” carved out of the jungle. There’s a makeshift altar and logs for pews.





The further west we go the more we leave behind semi-desert and enter into the central African jungle. Here is the steamy tropical fecund land that encircles the earth at the equator. The road begins to look like this:





It is a harbinger of things to come . . . . .

 







Next post: the first of two about traversing Central African Republic and conquering the central African jungle. How do you spell mud?

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. We all swapped photos when we got to London.

Previous posts:
1. The Drums Of Africa
2. Tanzania Mania
3. Wildlife And Tribal Life In Kenya
4. The Opposite Of Glamping




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.