CHAPTER SEVEN

DREAM THE IMPOSSIBLE DREAM

I had always dreamt of crossing the Sahara Desert and

travelling down from London to Capetown through Africa.

Eventually this burning ambition transformed into the specific idea of

driving from London to Capetown and from then on my plans started

to gel. It meant crossing the English Channel and driving down

through France and Spain, and then crossing the Mediterranean from

Gibraltar to Tangiers. The Sahara itself we would cross from north to

the south, from Algiers to Nigeria about half way down the African

continent. The second stage was crossing from the Nigerian coast on

the Atlantic, through the Congo to Uganda and the Indian Ocean on

the east. From there I presumed we could drive down through

Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) across the savannah country on

the east coast to Capetown in South Africa. All of this I planned from

my school atlas, studying the topography, the climates, and measuring

the distances with a ruler. It occurred to me that on my way home I

could again perhaps see Cloie who was studying medicine in Brisbane.

My first major hurdle was finding someone of like mind to

accompany me because it was an impossible task for one person. I had

kept up correspondence with a good school friend, Robert Benjamin,

from Auckland. He was the fellow whose French paper I had set fire

to in the classroom many years earlier. So we arranged to meet at

Taupo to talk about it. Robert was also farming and had achieved a

commission with the Army during his C.M.T. training. We camped on

the beach of Lake Taupo. It was settled that I should buy the vehicle

of my choice - a light weight Morris Minor 8 horsepower with an open

roof and balloon tyres to enable us to bounce over the desert, and light

 

enough to push out of trouble. Incredibly, it would cost only 278.

No other small car had ever made this trip so there was considerable

doubt as to its capability. Robert was willing to share the experience

and the costs with me. We would camp and travel light and get jobs

where it worked in with our plans. Providing I owned the car for more

than a year I would not have to pay duty on it when I arrived back in

New Zealand and I also had hopes of getting sponsorship from an oil

company, Dunlop Tyres and Nuffield, the Morris manufacturer for

some of my expenses in return for free publicity.

According to the weather chart on my school atlas we should cross the

Sahara in winter to avoid the hottest time in the desert. So to get there

in time by boat we had only a month to spare before boarding the

Rangitata sailing for Southampton.

"Well, David, my boy," my father said as he wished me

goodbye. "Drink plenty of Indian Quinine Tonic water and gin to stop

malaria - and be careful of the women of ill repute, they carry

diseases." (That was the only advice he ever gave me about sex.) "And

here's a fiver," he added, to change the subject I think. I had also been

saving and my dear Mum paid the 75 for the passage via Panama to

Britain. Robert and I travelled six-berth 'steerage' class to save money.

We had even tried to arrange working our passage but had no

guarantee of getting there on time or even being together on that ship.

There was to be no dining at the Captain's Table on that trip!

I left the farm I was temporarily managing as soon as I could

arrange someone else to take over. That only left a week in which I

frantically sold my old car, arranged my passport and travellers'

cheques, collected introductions and completed all the 1001 last

minute jobs. My parents were extremely anxious about the outcome

of this adventure especially with troubles brewing in Algeria and

Kenya, and my father had investigated some of the ghastly accidents

and murders in the Sahara. They both sincerely begged us not to

attempt it. "Do be careful, David," stated my father. "And Robert, you

try and control his excesses."

My mother called forlornly from the wharf and I could see

and feel her anxiety. "Don't worry, Mother Dear," I yelled back as the

ship started to move. I felt then that maybe they were to be famous

last words and both Robert and I had the feeling of anticipation mixed

with fear as the coastline slid away in the gathering dusk. "We are out

of territorial waters," said Robert. "Let's drown our sorrows with some

tax-free grog." I felt the same way as we made our way to the 'Pig and

Whistle'. It was two very sick young men who made their

acquaintances with their fellow cabin mates that night, it took us a

few days to get used to the combination of alcohol and the rolling of

the boat.

One of our cabin mates came from India and when he heard

of our intended trip he said. "You are both mad. Do you realise that

your little car will never be able to cross sand? Even if it could, it

would boil until it exploded. Then just think about what a huge

African elephant would do if it saw your car in the jungle of the

Congo. It would pick it up with its trunk and bang, bang!!! Then it

would crush the remains with its ten-ton feet, like so," and he came

crashing down onto the floor from his bunk just as the ship gave a

shudder.

Shipboard life was very dull, emphasised so by the lack of

girls. But at Curacao there was a minor bombshell when a Venezuelan

multi-millionaire arrived on board with considerable fanfare.

Apparently he could only have the second best suite, as Lord and Lady

Freyberg, New Zealand's returning Governor General accompanied by

his wife, had the best. This was outrageous to his egocentric nature,

so he walked up to the captain and made him an offer in cash for his

ship. Sensibly, the captain declined the offer.

Incidentally. I made friends with Lord Freyberg with our early

morning swims in the ship's pool. A man I had great respect for. Of

course it was his marathon swim under enemy fire at Gallipoli when

he won his Victory Cross.

In London after two nights at an expensive Bed and Breakfast,

we found a small cheap flat at Hampstead. The landlady's main

stipulation was that there was to be no alcohol on the premises.

Unfortunately, as we were moving in, Robert was carrying the last

bottle of our duty free whisky up the stairs under his coat when he

tripped smashing the bottle on the concrete steps. I was just coming

in the door. I saw the landlady, who was at the foot of the stairs, freeze

in her stride as the whisky trickled down towards her. "Get out of

here!" she screamed, as she rushed at Robert. He paused for a

moment, undecided about what to do next, then taking three steps at

a time with his suitcase under one arm, he sideswiped the landlady's

rush, like a half-back breaking from a scrum, and made a bee-line for

the door. "She is a raving lunatic," he stammered as we jumped back

into the taxi. "Get cracking," I called to the driver, "or you are quite

likely to be attacked with a rolling pin." The taxi driver turned out to

be better at finding us accommodation than the estate agent.

I had been asked by the trustees of the family farm back in

New Zealand to go and interview a family in Holland with a view to

their immigration but on the way to the airport we got completely

lost. Robert was driving as fast as he could in what seemed like every

direction except the right one. We finally arrived just as the aircraft

was taxiing out for takeoff. "You have missed your plane," I was told,

which of course was quite obvious. But just as I walked back to the

car, an air hostess ran out to us. "Wait, the plane has had to return

with engine trouble." There was a delay of an hour or so, then I

climbed aboard hoping they had remedied the engine troubles.

After a night at Amsterdam, where I wandered the streets until

I found cheap lodgings, I started to hitch-hike. I stayed mostly at

YMCA hostels, very good even though I had trouble asking for

directions using my booklet of useful phrases to get there. I had

plenty of lifts on the way, mostly in the big diesel trucks that frequent

most parts of Europe. I found that if I made people understand that I

came from New Zealand they would be most hospitable. This was

understandable, considering how well New Zealand had looked after

the large contingent of Dutch immigrants after World War Two.

My longest walk on the whole trip was across the Zuider Zee

Dyke, only a short distance from Sneek where I had arranged to meet

the Dutch family at their home. Looking back, I must have been

influenced by the blond beauty of a daughter who did the

interpreting. At any rate, I put in a good recommendation for them

and, subsequently, the whole family of six children and the two

parents came to New Zealand. My view of them changed later. I was

only too pleased to see the last of their eldest son who tried to shoot

me in a fit of rage.

Holland is an easy country to tour on foot and in two days I

was back in the city of Amsterdam. I spent my last evening wandering

the back streets and canals where the prostitutes display themselves in

shop windows in their crude seductive way. Not for me!

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