the kenfessions diaries - Day 4 plus - 10/12/87

[Ken Gargett]

Okay, well, we have fallen slightly behind in the story, but that is what happens when there is a cracking Ashes test on (I realise that means little to our American brethren, but imagine you are trying to do this in the middle of a close World Series). But then, appropriate as we had immediately fallen behind schedule in Paris, when stuck waiting for the visas. It also happens when Whipcrack’s forum will not let me load these. A subtle way of telling me something?

But this does remind one of communications back then. Imagine you are studying or working in a foreign country today – or if appropriate, your kids are. Thanks to cheap calls, mobile phones, the internet, skype, emails and the various social media forms (don’t ask me), you can probably get in touch with someone on the other side of the world in seconds. Minutes at the worst. An English mate, who lives in Japan, and I email back and forth during the Ashes, discussing what is happening (although I am currently hearing less and less from him). In those days, we’d have probably swapped letters every month or so.

Back then, in the 2^nd half of the 80’s, most of my correspondence was via aerogram (remember them?). They were very convenient. Pre-paid blue pages, well, one page with a flap. Allowed you to write a reasonable amount but not too much. And then seal and send. Family usually had it within ten days. Wow, that was technology at its best – and before you laugh, Ian Fleming in his Bond novels, had 007 bring Moneypenny a present from his adventures, whenever he returned. The only criteria for it was that it had to be something that was the latest technology, something to wow audiences. In ‘Casino Royale’, that present was a ballpoint pen. Seriously. I'm sure that in another 30 years, people will laugh at what today seems cutting edge.

An example of communications while I was travelling through Africa? It took me a month to find out who won that year’s Superbowl. This was in the days when I did not follow any team, but just enjoyed the game. A great mate from Denver, however, was a fanatical Broncos fan and I had heard they were in the big game. I finally found out the result from a marine, I think (soldier/Seal/grumpy bastard?) securing the gates of the US Embassy in the Cameroons, whom I might say guarded the information as jealously as any state secret. Why? No idea. It took me ages to convince him that this was not a plot designed to end civilisation, but simply that I had a mate who supported the Broncos and I wanted to know if they won. He would only confirm that Denver did not. Refused to tell me the score – Lord knows what he thought I might do with that information. Somewhat ironic, as it turned out, they were not just beaten, they were humiliated by the team I would eventually come to follow – the Redskins. But I only started following them when I lived there a few years later. Still remind my mate of that game, though. Can watch that second quarter every single day. HTTR.

There was another option for communications – very expensive phone calls. My folks allowed me to make reverse charge calls on rare occasions (which meant, as a student, that was the only time I rang). But as soon as one hit Africa, forget it. In those days, nowhere in Africa (didn’t get as far as South Africa so can’t speak for them) would allow reverse charge calls. The reasoning being that they wanted all the revenue they could get, so wanted you to pay the exorbitant charges they imposed. So, for months, the only news from home was letters which my folks would send to the various post offices around the continent and hope I would pick up as I went through. It worked surprisingly well, though I have no doubt that there are letters to me still floating around the Dark Continent – although they were probably burnt years ago. I would send letters home, but who knows how many made it. Often this meant that information was several months out of date, both ways. Occasionally we did find a newspaper, but often they were not in English. That was what it was, in those days. So, for six months, my family and friends had almost no idea how I was, where I was, what I was doing. They honestly often didn’t even know which hemisphere I was in. I loved that. Today, it seems everyone knows where everyone is, every moment, and what they are doing. But I am rambling.

Before l\we leave Paris, I should probably give more background as the people on board will be our constant companions for the next seven months. Anyone who sticks with me will get to know them very well over that time. But probably safer if I use code/initials/pseudonyms for most of them – not all. There may be moments they would prefer not shared. And good luck with that.

One of the main reasons I wanted to do the trip this way was that I was fascinated by the thought of observing 15-20 people, mostly strangers, from all over the world, being thrown together in quite tough circumstances and living in what was a space around the size of a prison cell (the truck). For seven months. Of course, when I was thinking about this, it never struck me that I'd be anything more than an interested observer. The reality is that I was inevitably drawn into this ‘Peyton Place in a goldfish bowl’ as much as anyone. It had honestly never occurred to me that this would happen. That seems incredibly naïve now.

Having signed up for the GOE, I attended the introductory meeting a few days before we left London. At the same meeting, those going on the other truck, which was only London to Nairobi, were also there.

Even though one of my very dearest friends, still today, was a Kiwi in London, my mates and I had a book on how many I'd be sharing my life with for the next seven months. My great mate? It seems that to this day, literally 32 years later, he still blames me for having to limp – when I first arrived in London, I was co-opted to the London House rugby team, for the rather spurious reasons that I was big and loved the game and I was an Aussie and we were good back then, but obviously not co-opted by anyone who had ever seen me stumble around a field. I was having drinks with Dave at London House that evening and tried to sign him up as well – he was an excellent fullback and had played quite high levels. So much better than me. He told me that the doctors had insisted he never play again as, although it was extremely unlikely, there was a tiny possibility that he could do permanent damage to his knee, though the likelihood was very slim. But UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES, should he ever take to the field again. About 35 beers later, I'd talked him into it. What were the chances?

Apparently, a smidge higher than we thought. Two minutes after kick-off, as he was stretchered off, he could still be heard screaming death threats at me, rather uncharitably I thought.

In fairness, I probably had more Kiwi mates in London than I did Aussies and I was often mistaken, distressingly, as a Kiwi by other Kiwis (do they really not know how they sound?). It was more one extremely obnoxious example. He did not actually live at London House but hung around there a lot – I always suspected it was because nowhere else would tolerate him. He had the extraordinary ability to turn every single conversation, no matter what the topic, into a discussion on New Zealand. And it would never take more than a sentence. Any topic.

“So, full moon tonight.” “Well, New Zealand could have had a space program if it blah blah.” Any sport? New Zealand does it best. Or would if they played it. I remember after we won the Bledisloe back then, yes it was a long time ago, getting a lecture on how that in reality, netball was New Zealand’s national sport (they must have won something back then) and that it really was a more skilful sport blah bah…  Seriously? Even thinking about him 30 years later irritates me.

He was the worst advertisement New Zealand ever had. Moving on. So, my Kiwi mates aside, I was having a serious overdose of our neighbours. Inevitably, the first person I meet walking up the stairs to the meeting – Kiwi! But they were on the shorter trip. We were to be a Kiwi-free zone for the seven months.

I remember that we were told that, even if we strictly took our anti-malarial medicine every day, and used mossie nets in infected areas, the stats suggested that around 25% of us would still contract it. Rather sobering. As it turned out, there were 20 people on each of the two trucks, at least to start (ah yes, dramas await). And each truck suffered five cases of malaria. Bang on 25%. Trust me, you DO NOT want to get malaria. Fortunately, I was not part of the 25% – got enough other lurgies – but it made a serious mess of those it did get. And it was not something one got over quickly.

We were divided into ‘trucks’. Many of those travelling were not there as they were flying in from Canada, the States and other places to join the trip and had not yet arrived.

The first bloke I meet is Jon, a Dutchman. Now I know that the Dutch, and forgive the stereotyping, are known as blunt. Jon, as we were to discover, had left ‘blunt’ so far in the rear-view mirror that it didn’t matter. Jon was often just plain rude, but usually it was extremely funny, though rarely intentionally. He and I ended up very good mates and even did some travelling together after Nepal, until the Dutch tax authorities finally caught up with him and suggested it would be in his interests to rush back to Holland.

Jon did not enjoy Nepal as much as some of us. I remember him throwing an enormous wobbly, as he’d been tossed from a raft in level 6 rapids (the really serious ones – I think that these were either 6 at the time and later brought back to a 5 – still some of the world’s toughest – or possibly had just been brought back), lucky to survive, and been dragged sodden from the torrents and tossed on to the bank. To digress, rafting down those things was one of the great thrills imaginable. Anyway, nothing on earth would get him back in a raft, so he was going to walk back to Kathmandu. He’d lost his glasses in the rapids, so could see about three yards ahead of himself, but still, without water, gear, food, money, map, anything, headed up the edge of the mountain through which the river cut and into the forests to try and find Kathmandu. He eventually made it, several days later, but would never give us any details of how.

I remember my first sight of Jon. Hugely obese, briary sandy/red hair, button eyes with coke bottle specs, Hawaiian shirt and a mouth full of scorn. He really was horrendously fat and looked quite sickly. I thought how the hell will this bloke last in Africa. And I wondered why they were allowing a bloke so old on the trip – I thought that there were age limits? It was a shock to discover that Jon and I were the same age. He really did not look well.

As it turned out, after three months, Jon was the only one of us who had not been seriously ill at some stage and had also lost 30, yes 30, kilograms (and was still obese). I asked him about that and he said it was simple. After work, he and his fellow chefs – did I mention he was a brilliant chef working in a 2-star Michelin (don’t ask me which one), having changed his profession from accountancy – would sit down and have anywhere between 20 and 40 beers (I think they were not huge glasses, but still…). Jon said that simply not doing that had resulted in him shedding all that weight (I suspect the lifestyle of travelling, and more, assisted, but there you go).

Next guy I met was Ian, our driver. Terrific bloke and the only one with whom I am still in any regular contact. Ian was a sparky from Townsville, before doing the overseas thing and ending up working as a driver for EO. We worked out that our fathers had known each other, not well, through tennis as both were quite high-level players and had met in tournaments of sorts. Ian had done plenty of the shorter trips through Europe, even the Middle East and on to Kathmandu, but this was his first through Africa – I thought that might be a disadvantage for us, but in hindsight, not so. Sure, he may not have known what some drivers did about special spots and shortcuts, though they all shared amongst themselves, but he was as keen as us to discover everything and see it all. Most evenings, he and I and Rod (to be introduced) and sometimes a few others, would sit down with the maps – no GPS or anything like that, of course – and work out what we should try and see the next day, which would be the best route, what to avoid.

To this day, I firmly believe that our trip was so much more successful than so many others because of Ian. We were very lucky. Ian eventually finished up with EO and now lives in Switzerland with his wife, soon to move back to Queensland. He got into watches, writes about the very best of them for numerous high-end magazines and runs the blog, Quill & Pad (www.quillandpad.com – definitely worth a look for watch lovers).

The only other Aussie was Jen, from Victoria. A public servant before and since, I believe. We catch up irregularly, once or twice a decade. Jen was pretty much one of those reliable, decent Aussie girls. Good fun, very smart, always up for an argument and always keen to be involved in anything that was happening.

There are plenty more, but I'll be briefer next time and try and catch up to where we are. Asap.

So – at the moment, we are still in Paris, about to head for Gibraltar, or thereabouts.

KBG

[99call]

On 17/12/2017 at 2:29 AM, Ken Gargett said:

 about to head for Gibraltar, or thereabouts.

Late to this, great reading Ken. It's sad. I can't help thinking that travel these days is a hell of a lot less fun, due to the accuracy of organisation/communication. Back in 98 when I started travelling, was also the death of being able to turn up at airports for 'standby flights' from the UK. I wish travelling could some how be a little more off the cuff, without actual risk of death, of course... although that does seem to be the magic ingredient to any great trip

It unfortunate that cigars weren't in your life back then, I would imagine that Lewis Stagnetto's shop in Gibraltar would of had shelves stuffed with Davidoffs, and mid 80's maybe even some lingering Dunhills.  

[Ken Gargett]

14 hours ago, 99call said:

Late to this, great reading Ken. It's sad. I can't help thinking that travel these days is a hell of a lot less fun, due to the accuracy of organisation/communication. Back in 98 when I started travelling, was also the death of being able to turn up at airports for 'standby flights' from the UK. I wish travelling could some how be a little more off the cuff, without actual risk of death, of course... although that does seem to be the magic ingredient to any great trip

It unfortunate that cigars weren't in your life back then, I would imagine that Lewis Stagnetto's shop in Gibraltar would of had shelves stuffed with Davidoffs, and mid 80's maybe even some lingering Dunhills.  

thanks. very different time.

apols for falling behind. bit difficult over christmas. will try and catch up soon.