An African Diary

Today's the day of our official send-off in Sheffield. The Land Rovers left Guernsey on 26 October with a lot of work still to be done on them. They were driven straight to Norfolk where Richard and Jason put in a few long days on the final preparations for our journey. They arrived in Sheffield yesterday. I sat in my office checking and re-checking that everything was up to date and ready to hand over to Sue, June and Tony. I know Sue is worried about coping with the business while I'm away, but I have every confidence in her.

I glance through my office window every few moments, waiting for the Land Rovers to arrive, rushing downstairs as soon as I spot them. Jason, whom I haven't met before, seems a capable, reasonably easy-going young man. We're all going to need those virtues if we're going to survive the next few months.

This morning we did a little last-minute shopping for spares and tools then drove the two Land Rovers to the Town Hall for the official send-off from the Lord Mayor. After radio interviews and photographs we continued to the hotel for the press reception and more interviews and photographs. Leslie and Brigid had set up a small exhibition with maps of our proposed route through Africa and samples of items donated to us to distribute en route.

There are a few tearful farewells from the families of the Sheffield team members.

Afterwards we all go back to Magick's offices in Sheffield to re-pack the Land Rovers ready for an early start tomorrow. Richard and his wife, Dorothy, are staying with Sue and me tonight. Our last night together for what seems now like an eternity.

The two Land Rovers arrive at our home in Brimington Common, Chesterfield, shortly after 6.00 a.m. to pick up Richard and myself. We say goodbye to Sue and Dorothy, a painful moment I've been avoiding thinking about. I realise that in all my thoughts about this trip I imagine myself back home with Sue, having finished the journey, with the experiences and the memories. I know that the memory of driving away, craning for a last glimpse of Sue standing outside our house, looking so small and alone, will live with me throughout this journey, and beyond. I feel guilty and overwhelmingly sad. For the first time, now this journey is real, not a dream, I wish I wasn't going. I'm glad Dorothy is with her. I wonder how I would cope if it were me standing there watching the Land Rovers driving away.

We head south, stopping at Leicester Forest East for slices of cold Spanish omelette and quiche. The M1 is very busy and it rains for most of the journey.

We arrive at London Zoo, who have kindly agreed to host our London send-off, at 11.00 a.m. in heavy rain. While waiting in the zoo offices I notice someone apparently trying to break into one of the Land Rovers. It turns out to be Jo, the eighth member of our party, who had arranged to join us here.

It is strange driving into the Zoo, turning the corner and seeing a rhino. As we approach the animal it turns from its browsing and regards us without interest, its prehensile lower lip working on the leaves. Sadly, there's not much of a press turn-out in the rain. There is a reporter and photographer from Africa Bound to cover for the travel trade press, a reporter from LBC, and a photographer from Adventurers magazine. Christopher Timothy, star of BBC TV's 'All Creatures Great and Small', arrives with his daughter, Tabitha. I meet them at the zoo offices and take them to the rhino enclosure.

Christopher Timothy seems genuinely interested in what we're doing and co-operates cheerfully with the photographer in the driving rain. He and I record an interview for LBC. Then we meet Rosie, about one year old, the first hand-reared rhino in the world.

Christopher Timothy describes his encounter with a gorilla at the zoo a few months previously. As he talks I wonder whether we really would be experiencing something similar when we see the mountain gorillas in Zaire or Rwanda in a few months time.

From the zoo we go to Africa Bound's offices, after lunch at an Italian restaurant. Browsing though the brochures at Africa Bound I come across one advertising Scorpio Villas in Malindi, Kenya, where Sue and I spent two idyllic holidays, the last at the beginning of this year. I shall be in Kenya in about five months time, without Sue this time, although we hope it might be possible for her to fly out to meet me there -- a good dream.

South again to Portsmouth for the night ferry to Caen -- good fish and chips (I had haddock) out of paper before we left. I ring Sue from a 'phone box in the ferry terminal. She says that she had thought of flying out to Paris and surprise me by meeting me at the camp-site, but decided against it as she couldn't bear to go through the goodbyes again. I know what she means, but I wish she had. But it would have been very difficult leaving Sue in alone Paris, instead of at our home, with her daughter Joanna and the animals. Six months....

Not much sleep curled up between the seats on the floor of the ferry, but a calm crossing followed by an early morning start to our drive straight through to Paris. We stop for breakfast at a little cafe on route -- fruit juice, coffee and bread and jam. We arrive in Paris in drizzling rain and find the Mali embassy. We fill in our forms and are issued with visas straight away. From here we drive to the Rwanda embassy to collect the visa forms. We knew things wouldn't be quite as easy here; they say we have to wait until Wednesday for our visas. Quicker than we'd feared, but the prospect of hanging around on a Paris campsite in November doesn't appeal too much. We are all keen to get through Europe and into Africa. And not just because of the weather.

By the time we get to the camp-site on the Bois du Boulogne it's dark -- also cold and wet. We set up camp, little knowing that we were to become quite skilled at erecting tents in rain and darkness. Nick, Sue's ex., who is in Paris on business for a few days, calls to wish us well on our journey. He's on his way to pick up his girl-friend, Kay, from the airport. For a moment I envy them their comfortable, warm hotel room. I could get a flight myself and be back in Sheffield in a few hours.

After a cold night I have a warm shower in a freezing, draughty cubicle. The day is spent tidying up and sorting out. We are visited by French reporter/photographer, Stefan. A truck belonging to Exodus, one of the Africa overland tour companies, arrives and parks next to us. We meet the leader, a solicitor taking time off to see the world, who borrows a pair of socks from Jason. We tell him we've got to hang around until Wednesday to get Rwandan visas. He tells us that it's just as easy to get them in Burundi. So, as the weather forecast was continuing cold and wet, we decide to move out tomorrow.

After turkey stew and French bread, most of us spend the evening in the bar with the overland truck leader and his co-driver, in the interests of research into what problems we might expect on our journey. The discussion was terminated at about midnight when the overland expedition leader disappeared in slow motion beneath the table.

The oil and filters have to be changed before we left, not an easy job in freezing rain, so it is late afternoon by the time we pull off the camp-site. Everyone's spirits still fairly buoyant despite a fairly miserable drive through Sunday and on through the night south on the E15 from Paris. There are illuminated temperature signs at intervals along the road, starting off at four degrees Centigrade near Paris and only reaching six degrees after nearly 400 miles. I notice that the lights of the Series III are really faint. Let's hope we don't have to do much night driving.

I have my first stint driving the 110. Our top speed is about 40 mph. Approaching Marseille we turn west and follow the coast towards the Spanish border. During Monday afternoon we see several trucks belonging to an Italian circus parked at the road-side. One of them seems to contain a large animal. We stop to investigate and find a miserable looking rhino standing, head lowered, in a truck not much bigger than the animal itself. A group of men resting at the side of the road glower at us suspiciously. We move on, hoping that the next rhino we see will be in better condition.

That night we stop at a camp-site near Perpignan. It's cold and windy still; but at least it's dry! I find a 'phone and ring Sue. She seems OK. How many 'phone calls before we're back together again? I hope everything at the shop goes smoothly for her. It seems a long way away at the moment.

Both Land Rovers are very heavily loaded. The back springs on the Series III are virtually flat so we're going to try to pick up new ones in Gibraltar.

To bed at about 8.30 after writing up these notes with the wind blowing hard.

In the morning we call in at a Hypermarket to stock up with food. So far we've been having stews mainly. I buy a small haversack for my washbag, towel and the other bits and pieces I need during the day. My rucksack travels on top of the Land Rover and only comes out at night and the plastic carrier bag I'm using as a 'day bag' at the moment isn't going to last much longer. Strange the things you don't think of when you're planning what to take. It seems obvious now that I would need a small bag for day-to-day use.

We continue south over the Pyrenees into Spain. Taking the Autoroute through the Costa Brava we skirt Barcelona and turn off before Tarragona to camp at Castle Tamarit, an excellent site on the beach. We have to set up in the dark again -- all good practice I suppose. It's pilchard and potato pie for dinner.

A warm sunny day (at last) spent taking stock, checking vehicles, and making the minor necessary adjustments as revealed by our journey so far. Richard fits the radio/cassette player into the 110. Some of us take the opportunity during the afternoon to sun-bathe on the beach.

We walk up to the castle overlooking the beach but the gates are guarded by a large ferocious dog. To bed after curry.

We leave Tamarit at about 10.30. Near Castellan among orange groves, a man in a dark blue suit stands at the side of the road by a heap of several hundred books, hard-bound in the same colour fabric as his suit. South of Valencia we climb towards a range of mountains with grey clouds flopped across them. Two British furniture vans pass us, heading home.

We stop for lunch in the mountains near a cafe and get soaked in a brief but torrential rainstorm.

Mid-afternoon and it's pouring again. From a side window, streaming with rain, I glimpse a fantasy house covered in shells.

After Alicante the two vehicles become separated. Jason is leading in the Series III and I am following him, driving the 110. I lose him at some traffic lights. The place we're heading for is signposted off to the right so I turn onto what looks like a new road. It would seem that Jason's map doesn't show this and he has continued straight on, following the old road.

After a few miles we haven't caught up with Jason and it becomes clear that we've lost him. As I'm sure that this road leads to the town we've chosen for tonight's stop, we continue further. After seeing no further signposts naming the place, however, we decide to turn back and follow the old road we have decided Jason must have taken. By now we've lost nearly two hours and Janet is getting worried. She's also not too happy about the speed at which I am driving. Spencer insists on double de-clutching when changing from first to second gear (or is it third to second). I remember most of the time, but it seems a little unnecessary in a new 110.

We retrace our steps and follow the old road. A few miles from the camp-site we're heading for we pass the junction with the new road that we turned round at some time previously. It is now 11.00 o'clock and a much-relieved Jason, Brigid, Leslie and Richard greet us at the camp-site. During the past couple of hours they've visited every site in a radius of ten miles to see if they'd misunderstood instructions and driven to the wrong camp.

We set up a minimum of tents as quietly as possible. The camp has a cafe and we drop in for a nightcap. They have a pool table. Jo claims she is an ace player so she and Jason challenge a couple of guys to a game. Jo doesn't seem to be on form, but they won anyway, largely due to the opposition knocking the black down a couple of times.

I sleep on the floor in the back of the Series III, feet sticking out on the lowered tailgate. There's dew on my sleeping bag but I'm too tired to care.

The site, Fortuna, is next to some hot springs and seems to cater mainly for large expensive motor caravans. We found it difficult to find an area for our tents as each site, neatly marked off with bushes, is concreted over to provide level parking. I get the impression that they don't really encourage camping here.

Shortly after 10.00 in the morning we leave Fortuna, heading south towards Gibraltar. The road through the mountains is narrow and winding, steep drops on one side. In Guadix there are strings of dark red chilli peppers hung from balconies to dry. Jo buys a large plate in a village where houses are carved into rocky outcrops, topped by tv aerials. I wonder if the plate will survive the journey. It probably stands as least a good a chance as we do.

A shepherd watches us pass, standing in the centre of his scattered flock. We are still driving through spectacular mountain scenery. Sections of the new road are chopped through the rock which the old road skirts, in an attempt to cut out some of the tight bends.

We get separated again during the rush-hour traffic in Granada. Due to confusion over our night-time destination one of the Land Rovers takes the wrong road out of Granada to Loja. We have a long drive back on a winding road through the sierras, arriving at Almunecar at 11.30 p.m. Some people might suggest that if we can get lost on signposted, tarmac roads in Spain this doesn't bode too well for the rest of our journey through Africa.

We are heading south along the Spanish coast now. We stop at a supermarket in Tarrox, full of elderly English voices. One old man stares at our Land Rovers for some time before his wife takes his arm and leads him away. I see him later pushing a trolley containing corn flakes, marmalade and tinned beans.

By traffic lights in Malaga a roadside gypsy band, trumpet and electronic keyboard, plays while a woman sings of love and death, one hand on a pushchair carrying a sleeping baby. A man slips through the waiting cars, thrusting a collecting bag containing a few coins through the open windows. On the outskirts of Malaga a goatherd is dwarfed by hoardings from another time, advertising retirement and holiday homes. Familiar names are displayed -- Barrats, Laings, Wimpey.

Around Marbella we pass a string of fantasy villages, mainly 'hacienda Lego' style with a few from the Cecil B de Mille school of architecture.

Towards dusk we arrive in the camp site at San Roque. That evening, after a meal of beefburgers, sausages, salad and jacket potatoes. we sit around our first camp fire, listening to Jasper Carrott on cassette.

We wake to a cold morning (and cold showers). I feel better after a bowl of porridge.

There's a motley assortment of campers here. Two bikers back from Morocco await money from England before they can continue their journey home. A hippy-style family are building their own motor caravan using a lorry chassis and cannibalised vehicles. There are several other groups which seem to have stepped right out of the sixties, living in derelict vehicles or rusting caravans.

We drive over to Gibraltar and have sausage, egg, bacon and chips for lunch. It's Remembrance Day and Spencer watches the wreathes being laid in the town centre. The weather is still very overcast, due to the Levantine, we're told. Four of us walk up the rock, stopping off at St Michael's Caves, which are apparently used for concerts. The whole system extends for about two miles, reaching 700 feet below ground level.

Apes sit on the road and scratch themselves. One tries to eat Jo's jumper, which Jason is carrying, and a seagull craps on Spencer.

Some children playing with plastic guns point out a short cut back down the rock. We walk through scruffy back streets. Union Jacks painted on the steps. Graffiti reads: 'We were born British -- We shall die British.'

At the petrol station there are rows of Spanish cars queuing for cheap petrol.

We stop at La Linea, border town between Spain and Gibraltar for onions and wine. Not knowing the Spanish for onions we have to resort to mime -- cutting something, then tears.

One of the springs on the Series III is now showing serious signs of strain; both vehicles are extremely over-loaded. Yesterday Jason and Spencer met an army officer who said that the army workshops may be able to help with replacements. They returned to Gibraltar to try to follow that up while Janet and I went to try and drum up a little publicity for the rhino.

We managed to set up a story and a photograph for the Gibraltar Chronicle and recorded an interview with the Gibraltar Broadcasting Corporation.

Gibraltar has a slightly run-down air. The GBC reporter says that everyone is worried about their future after 1992. They consider themselves British and are angry at reports that the British Army is preparing to move out. A couple of Army officers we talk to later, however, say that these rumours are without foundation. "There's no way the British Army is going to leave Gib.," one of them says.

Despite being rebuffed by police at the entrance to the army vehicle workshops, Jason and Spencer manage to get to see the army officer. A new spring has been organised and will be fitted tomorrow morning. They've bought a pick-axe handle as Spencer says it will be needed at some time during the journey.

After dinner we talk to a guy who is walking around the world with his girl-friend. He lived in Guernsey for a year.

Torrential rain started in the early hours of this morning. Most of us got wet, with water dripping from the tent ridge poles or being blown under the flysheets. I got off lightly with only the foot of my sleeping bag getting damp.

Jason and Spencer are up early and off by 6.00 a.m. to take the Series III into Gibraltar to get the dodgy springs changed. After further lengthy and initially fruitless discussions with a policeman at the gate of the workshops, they manage to get in touch with the army officer they'd spoken to previously. A 'phone call then gets them past the guard on the gate and into the workshops.

The weather clears up and we are able to get things reasonably dried out and packed away by the time Jason and Spencer return. The workshops kindly donated a useful range of Land Rover spares and a retired musician they met on the way back gave £20 to project funds.

We are due to get the ferry to Ceuta today day but the bad weather has meant that several sailings have been cancelled. The earliest they can offer are for 10.30 tomorrow morning. We buy the tickets, despite the fact that the agent warns us that they don't actually guarantee us a place on the sailing we've booked. We plan to get there early tomorrow morning to make sure of a good place in the queue.

None of us really fancy setting up and packing away damp tents again so we rent a couple of cabins for the night.

We arrive at the port in Algeciras in good time and join the queue for the ferry, along with Moroccans in battered cars piled with Spanish goods and several elderly German couple in luxurious motorised caravans intending to spend the winter touring Morocco. We chat briefly to a couple of English guys and a woman who are heading for South Africa in a 110.

The ferry is very clean and modern, in contrast to my memories of the last time I travelled on it, on my first visit to Africa twenty-five years ago. But the dolphins are still there, leaping in the boat's wake. On board I get out the tape recorder loaned to us by Radio Guernsey, and make our first recording, trying to describe our feelings on approaching Africa....

"This seems a good moment to open the sound record of our African journey. We are on the ferry crossing from Algeciras to Ceuta. Behind us is our two-week journey across France and Spain; in front of us is the African coast.

"We left England from Portsmouth on 2 November and drove straight to Paris to organise visas for Mali. The journey through France and Spain was fairly uneventful. The weather for the most part was cold, wet or both. The vehicles have been thoroughly checked and are ready for their journey. We're ready too -- looking forward to getting to Africa where our journey really begins.

"For me, this crossing brings back vivid memories from over twenty years ago when I stood on the deck of a rather smaller ferry in these same waters looking out over the Straits of Gibraltar for my first sight of Africa.

"That journey was the realisation of a dream -- so, for all of us, will be the next few months. . . ."

In Ceuta, a duty-free port that is actually part of Spain, we do some shopping. I buy a bottle of gin for 175 pesetas -- less than a pound. Then on to the Moroccan border.

Our first African border crossing. The initial impression is of chaos, which our efforts to find which official wanted which papers do little to dispel. There are several people around willing to help -- "Hello, you English? Ah! Fish and Chips."

Eventually (without the help of Fish and Chips or his colleagues) we present the right papers to the right windows and after a very cursory inspection from the customs we are on our way. The whole thing takes less than an hour. We can only hope that all our African border crossings will be as straightforward.

On the road to Tangier we stop for a late lunch. The road winds around a hill-side overlooking the straits of Gibraltar, our last glimpse of Europe for some time a smudge of darker blue between sea and sky.

We arrive in Tangier at dusk to find it cold and drizzling with rain. We drive first to Mohammed's shop. Mohammed is a friend of Janet and Spencer. We have carried three heavy suitcases with us from England which belong to Mohammed.

The local camp site is closed for the winter so Mohammed arranges a deal on a couple of rooms at the Marco Polo hotel. Two nights running in a real bed! The room even has a bath.

For our first night in Africa the food in the hotel seems a little 'international' so we set off to find something more typically Moroccan. We have soup, kebabs, couscous, mint tea and sticky cakes at 'the Damascus' to the accompaniment of singer and drummers. The musicians split their time between the restaurant and the adjoining Moroccan disco.

From now on the going could be tough at times. And there are already signs of friction within the group. A discussion has been arranged back at the hotel. Some of us are not happy that decisions affecting everyone are often not made in consultation with us all. A late night.

A restless night too. I'm beginning to have a bad feeling about this trip.

Early morning sees us in the medina, or old town. We drink fresh squeezed orange juice at a pavement cafe, then buy bread still warm from the bakery and eat it as we thread our way through the maze of tiny shops and alleys. Some of the poorer stalls are stocked with odds and ends that you would imagine no-one would possibly have a use for -- empty cans and bottles, broken electrical fittings, shoe soles cut from old tyres.

Berber women in big straw hats sit behind small piles of home-grown vegetables. Their men squat behind a few chickens. The birds lay, legs tied, in a row on a piece of sacking, a scattering of corn before each. One man pulls a live rabbit from a sack for another to run his hands over speculatively. Youths dodge through the crush with boxes of fruit or vegetables. Small boys fetch and carry, occasionally breaking away and approaching us to offer their services as guides.

We are assailed by an incredible kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and smells. Stopping at a shop crammed with raffia baskets piled with spices, I am approached by a man -- the first of many -- offering hashish. On our way back to the hotel we pass shops packed with rows of cheap nylon bags with the legends 'Adidas' Lacoste' poorly stencilled on.

Such a mix of sensory stimuli -- perhaps it is no wonder that it was in Tangier that William Burroughs and Brion Gysin pioneered the 'cut-up' technique, a literary form involving the random (?) juxtaposition of sections of writings from various sources. In 'Astronauts of Inner Space' Burroughs claims that he and Gysin discovered rather than invented the technique. It was first used by Lady Sutton-Smith who lived in the Marshan (Tangier) in a villa overlooking the sea. Crippled with arthritis and unable to leave her home, she would cut up descriptions of her servant's walks to the market 'to let the words out'.

We are back at the Marco Polo at 10.30 to pack up ready to go to Fez, where we hope to find out the current situation about land border crossings into Algeria. We have heard reports that British passport-holders are being refused entry. Maybe the situation will be resolved within the next few days.

We head out of Tangier along the Rabat road, stopping on a beach for lunch. I take over driving the Series III for the first time. It tends to wallow a lot because of the weight, somewhat top heavy so needs to be coaxed around corners.

We hoped to make Fez by nightfall but darkness catches us again so we stop at Meknes -- it started to rain earlier and continues as we set camp. Quite a good site, just outside the old city walls, with grassy pitches. Also camping here are a group from Portsmouth Polytechnic who are planning to windsail across parts of the Sahara. They have very old Land Rovers. As usual our conversation revolves around how to get across the Algerian border. It seems that, following some difficulties with Algerian students entering Britain, on a tit-for-tat basis the Algerian authorities are refusing entry to British citizens at all land border crossings.

If we aren't allowed into Algeria, the only real alternative will be to try the route south from Morocco via Mauritania. Unfortunately this has been unused for some years due to border disputes between Morocco and the Polisario in the Western Sahara. Although it has been quiet for some time, according to the BBC World Service there has been renewed fighting in the past few days.

Before leaving we take a walk into the medina at Meknes. Jason stays at the camp site to work on the Series III. On the way we pick up a useless guide who is mainly intent on taking us to his friend's carpet shop. We get rid of him and return to camp to pack up for the short hop to Fez.

When we leave mid-afternoon it is fairly sunny but we soon run into a torrential storm. Has it been following us since London?

In Fez we find that the camp site has moved five kilometres out of town. Luckily, a passing Moroccan spotted our Land Rovers driving into Fez, waved us down and guided us to the site in his battered old Fiat.

We arrive after dark in the rain to find several other overland groups there, camped in the mud. The Exodus group we met in Paris left for the border early this morning. The Brits on board are flying to Oran and the group leader has hired an Australian to get the vehicle across the border.

Woke to a bright, sunny morning. It is decided that we should go into Fez in two groups. Lesley, Brigid and I set off in the Series III to drive to the old town. I find the first problem getting out of the site. The steep slope by the entrance is deeply rutted and thick with mud. After sliding backwards several times I go and find Jason. He points out a little lever you have to pull to engage the four-wheel drive. Fortunately, I'm not on this trip because of my mechanical knowledge....

We find a car park on the edge of the medina and hire a guard to keep eye on the Land Rover while we're away. At this point I make my second mistake of the journey (third, perhaps, if you count coming on this trip in the first place). I forget my first rule when exploring a strange city -- to find out the name of my starting point and note some appropriate landmark.

Lesley wants to get a pair of trousers dyed. Not knowing where this could be done we make for a shop where blankets are woven and sold -- the theory being that they must know where the wool for these had been dyed. One of the men in the shop, Ahmed, isn't busy so he offers to take us to the street of the dyers. In fact he takes us on a tour of the medina.

As we walk Ahmed tells us about his family. His father comes from the mountains and his mother from Fez. They married and settled in Fez and set up the family carpet business. When I remark that I have a shop in England Ahmed begins to explain in more detail how the carpet business works. His father acts as a wholesale distributor, buying carpets made in the mountain villages, bringing them to Fez and supplying several shops in the medina. Ahmed himself has a side-line taking mirrors and brassware to Spain, selling them and buying goods in Spain to re-sell in Morocco.

We pass the tannery and Ahmed takes us in to watch the leather being cured and dyed. From the roof we look down onto vats of different colours, all around us skins are laid out to dry. I was here twenty years ago. The smell hasn't changed either.

Ahmed explains that all the dyes used are natural. He tells us that the men work in the vats for only four years as their health soon begins to suffer. They work in tattered shorts, legs and arms stained by the dyes.

Further on we come across skeins of wool hung bright in the shade of the narrow alley. We stop at one of the dyer's shops, a tiny room opening directly off the alley. The men are amused at our rather unusual request. For a few dirhams the trousers are dyed blue -- "like the sky", the dyer explains when describing the range of colours he has on offer. The trousers are alternately dipped in a series of buckets of dye and wrung out.

We suggest a break for coffee. Ahmed asks us if we want modern coffee or Berber coffee. Of course we say choose Berber coffee. He guides us further into the labyrinth of narrow streets, jostled by donkeys carrying enormous loads between artisans and the shops in the more commercial parts of the medina. We pass beneath a dentist's sign with a lurid picture of a smiling mouth with impossibly white teeth and bright red gums. The alleys narrow further before we reach a small Berber cafe.

Half the area is carpeted and strewn with cushions. The other half is occupied by two small formica-topped tables.

By the entrance an old man presides over his tea and coffee pots. We sit on an old car rear seat. Opposite us three men squat on cushions playing a game with tarot cards. One smokes a long pipe. A fourth man plucks at an unfamiliar stringed instrument.

Glasses of hot, extremely sweet mint tea are served to us. Another man enters, nods to us, takes a seat at the next table, and lights a small pipe. The smells of coffee, mint and hashish mingle in the small room.

Ahmed shows us how to hold the hot glasses, thumb on the rim, two fingers on the edge of the base. The atmosphere is relaxed and unpressured; we could obviously sit here all day over one or two cups of mint tea. Ahmed says he prefers this kind of cafe where the old people come. In the modern cafes the music is too loud.

Ahmed offers to take us back to the car park. We start to explain where it is. "I know it," he says, sketching a triangular shape in the air to represent the car park. The place where we parked is in a triangle formed by three roads, so we follow him through the maze of alleys.

We need paraffin for the stoves. Ahmed says that it could be difficult to find in Morocco as paraffin lamps aren't used much. The route through the medina starts to seem familiar. I remember that dentist's sign, and that shoe shop with columns of bright plastic shoes strung on ropes like strange fruit. Then we take a turn into an unfamiliar area. Ahmed is unruffled though, he knows exactly where we're parked.

We exit the medina through an archway. "OK, where is your car?" Certainly not here. There is obviously more than one triangular car park on the outskirts of Fez.

We start to describe the car park again. "Ah, I know, it is by the market gate." It isn't.

We continue, now on a road which circles the old town. It climbs and we find ourselves looking across the medina. That tower, which we'd been trying to describe, that's where the car park is. Unfortunately it's directly opposite the point at which we're standing.

We continue along the road. Ahmed suggests we get a bus, out of concern for my age, I think. "It is maybe a one hour walk." We reply that we're happy if he is. He seems a little surprised that we should want to walk, but continues. It is now dusk and we've turned onto a leafy lane which seems a hundred miles from the dusty streets of Fez. A couple of hundred yards further on, however, we turn a corner into a side-street. There's the tower, there's the car park. And there's the Land Rover.

The guard is still there too. Although he has now been joined by a large group of associate guards who claim to have played a vital part in the protection of our vehicle too. We point out that the first man is our guard and so he is the man we will pay. After a few perfunctory protests they accept this and we're on our way, squeezing through a narrow archway not designed to take a Land Rover with jerry cans along the side, with literally an inch or two to spare.

Before we leave Ahmed offers to continue his services as a guide tomorrow for the rest of the team. He asks us to tell our friends that he will be at the cafe near the car park between noon and one o'clock tomorrow.

We stop at several shops on the way home looking for paraffin, and wine, but find none. Everyone is very helpful and points us to some other shop which may have stocks, but we eventually give up. It's dark by the time we reach the camp.

That evening we are joined by Julian, a lone British motor-cyclist. He's been trying to get into Algeria for three weeks, and has been refused entry at every border point between Morocco and Algeria. Now he's returned to Fez, somewhat depressed, to ponder his next move.

Last time he'd nearly made it. He'd been cleared by several officials, filled in the usual wad of forms, only to be turned back by the last border guard who took considerable delight in tearing up all his forms in front of him.

After dinner Julian joins us round the camp fire and, over a few glasses of wine, tells us of his experiences so far. Even before Algeria his journey hadn't been without problems. He'd left England with a friend who'd given up and gone home half-way through Spain. In Spain, too, Julian's bike had a major breakdown. He'd had to return to England for repairs then start again. Now it looked as if he wouldn't be able to get further than Morocco.

Despite the apparently lengthening odds against us, we decide to try the border post at Oujda before risking the Western Sahara route. We are pinning our hopes on a letter in Arabic from a Saudi Arabian Mobil Oil director, which says that we are engaged on important, charitable work.

Extract from letter to Sue:

'Much of the past couple of weeks has been taken up by worries over the crossing into Algeria. The more people we talked to as we travelled south, the more depressing the situation became. On our last night in Fez we couldn't decide whether to try for the border or head down for Mauritania. There have been recent reports of fighting in the Western Sahara and we were worried that we might be turned back by the Moroccans to prevent the Land Rovers being seized by the Polisario. We've decided to head for the border at Oujda.'

A peaceful sunny day. Brigid, Lesley and I relax in camp, in between catching up with washing, collecting firewood in the absence of paraffin, and writing up our diaries, while the rest of the team and Julian go into Fez.

I spend some time with Lesley, who talks very openly about her feelings about the journey and the relationships within the group. She, too, is very concerned about the increasing friction that is becoming evident after only two weeks. Perhaps this has been exacerbated by the awful weather we've experienced so far. But, although the weather will be warmer and drier from now on, there are bound to be other pressures.

There's a new vehicle on the site, past winner of the Paris-Dakar. It's a twin turbo air-cooled diesel truck (I'm told) fitted out really luxuriously. Just wait until Richard and Jason see it.

The rest of the team return after dark. Jason has bought a rather fetching camel-hide hat. The evening is dominated by further discussion of the Algerian border problem. The more people we talk to as we travel south, the more depressing the situation becomes. Will our letter do the trick? Should we not even bother trying and head straight for Mauritania?

We hear that the conflict between Morocco and the Polisario in the Western Sahara has flared up again. The BBC World Service reports 300 dead in border skirmishes. The Moroccan camp site manager says we'll have no problems if we stick to the coast road, but there are rumours of overlanders being fired upon when trying to evade border patrols. Another traveller reports that anyone attempting this route is being turned back by the Moroccans to prevent their vehicle being seized by the Polisario.

We briefly consider driving to Casablanca and seeing if we can get a boat to Dakar, and then entering Mali via Senegal. Or back to Europe and getting a ferry from Marseille to Algier. Or Naples to Tunis. Every possibility has its own problems, not least, the cost.

The final decision is that tomorrow we'll try for the border at Oujda, although the odds are we'll be turned back. At least, if we have to take the Mauritania route we'll be able to go via Marrakesh, a city of which I've good memories.

We hear that one overland group has had trouble in Fez. They'd parked their vehicle then got into a dispute with the car-park guards on their return. They'd refused to pay and one of the guards drove a car in front of their vehicle, blocking it. The travellers leapt out and moved the car by lifting it out of the way. The police intervened whereupon the overland group leader pointed a water pistol at the police captain. The group were immediately surrounded by armed police and marched to prison where they spent four hours before being released.

There are mutterings of mutiny within this group, whose members had booked a Saharan expedition but have spent their time driving around Morocco because of the Algerian border problems. Five of them have already left.

Two German guys are on their way back home after completing a trip around the Atlas Mountains on motor-bikes. There's another overland truck in too. The co-driver comes from my home village near Chesterfield. We talk about the pubs.

To bed and dreams of Sue and home. Nothing new there.

I'd planned to 'phone home from Fez this morning. But there's an enormous queue and the rest of the group feel that we should be on the road. Speak to you soon, I hope, Sue. Perhaps from Algeria?

The road east out of Fez towards Oujda climbs through bare hills. Some of the roads are closed and we have to take rough, dirt tracks. Good practice for the next few months.

We arrive in the border town after dark. There we meet a British couple in an old Land Rover, a military ambulance converted for overland use with two beds fitted in the back. They claim that both Algerian and British government representatives deny any knowledge of British passport holders being turned back at Algerian land borders. They are considering making some kind of protest at the border in the hope of precipitating action from the British Consul. They feel that if the authorities can be persuaded that the problem exists, something may be done to stop the Algerian action. There is the feeling among quite a few of the overlanders that we've talked to that if business and tourist travel was being affected some action would already have been taken, but because the only people being inconvenienced are a few overland travellers the situation is being ignored.

The promised camp site in Oujda doesn't exist. There's a municipal park whose nightwatchman says we may use the facilities but must park our vehicle and sleep outside the gates. We turn round and head back out of Oujda, pulling off the road to set up our first wild camp. It's cold and starts to rain as we sit down to eat. The awning isn't up so we rush to get everything packed away or covered, then finish our cold meal as best we can and retire for the night. Hope this isn't an example of what wild camping is going to be like, because we're going to be doing an awful lot of it over the next few months.

To bed at the earliest opportunity. At the moment I'm more concerned about finding a working international 'phone than what awaits us at the border tomorrow.

Next morning we pack up, putting on decent, clean clothes to look our best for the border officials. We head back into Oujda, stock up with a few provisions and reach the border at about 10 o'clock. It doesn't take too long to clear the Moroccan side. The last official shrugs, "Anglais? Bonne chance." He obviously expects to see us turned back. In the Series III no-one speaks as we approach the Algerian barrier. Most of us think we don't stand a chance, but we've got to give it a try.

The first Algerian official is polite but firm, "No English -- go back." So we show him the letter in Arabic from the Mobil boss in Saudi Arabia, saying that we are working to help the people and wildlife of Africa. He reads it and disappears. He reappears after a while and says we must wait for two hours while they fetch the top man. In fact he turns up in a little over an hour, takes all our passports and disappears. Another hour or so passes and he reappears, returns our passports and says that we must take our vehicles to the centre section to be checked. Does this mean we stand a chance?

We remember Julian, who we met in Fez, getting through all the various checks at the border, then having all the forms he'd filled in torn up in front of him. Is the same thing going to happen to us?

We fill in our forms, change money (minimum $125 each) have the vehicles checked by customs and head for the border gate. A new official asks for our passports -- "Anglais? Retournez!"

Apparently our passports haven't been stamped. We stand our ground and ask to see the chief again. He arrives, talks with the official who barred our way, and takes our passports again, together with Brigid. One-and-a-half hours pass. They return, Brigid is smiling. We are through, after seven hours!

The guard who tried to turn us back wishes us "Bon voyage" and we drive past the barrier into Algeria -- the first British overlanders to be allowed in for almost three months! Emotionally drained but elated, we decide to treat ourselves to a night in an hotel in Tlemcen -- The Mahgreb.

Our successful border crossing is the result of a combination of the Mobil Saudi letter and Brigid's fluent French, assisted, I think, by the fact that the Algerian border chief obviously fancied her. He invited her for dinner, which she gracefully declined (after the passports had been stamped).

I feel sorry for Julian back in Fez, awaiting our return. He was planning to accompany us on our Mauretanian route attempt.

It's too late to get any food in the hotel so we try to find somewhere open in town. It's 10 o'clock and everything seems to be closed, even all the cooked chicken shops. Eventually we do find one which is willing to open up and sell us two chickens and some bread. They seem expensive at nearly £20, but we buy them and take them back and eat in our hotel room accompanied by a couple of bottles of wine the head waiter rustles up for us. As Algeria is a Moslem country, rules on wine sales are very strict. Drinks are sold only with meals. We aren't eating hotel food, but the head waiter says it'll be OK as long as we drink only in our rooms. Before bed I wash a couple of items and leave them to drive over-night on the radiator.

Extract from letter:

'Three weeks on the road and this is only my second letter. I promise to try to do better.

'You will have gathered by now that we managed to get through the Algerian border, despite grave doubts and negative reports from all the British overlanders we met. Brigid was a tower of strength all the way through, talking to the various officials in fluent French and making an obvious hit with at least one.'

After breakfast I spend a couple of hours walking around Tlemcen. Jason and Spencer temporarily mislay the garage in which they parked the Land Rovers last night, but someone from the hotel drives them around for half an hour or so until they see something they recognise. Despite our experiences at the border, all the Algerians we meet are unfailingly friendly and helpful, with the possible exception of officials at the Post Office. I try to ring home but am told that there are no lines available to England.

I meet Nasser, who runs a mobile disco much in demand at local weddings, he tells me. He invites me to his home recording studio, a small room in which he also lives and sleeps. There's a narrow bed covered with records, but most of the room is taken up with disco equipment, tape recorders, and racks from floor to ceiling of cassettes and records. Foil Christmas style decorations hang from the ceiling. He insists on presenting me with a tape of Algerian popular music, complete with a specially recorded message of greeting to the Project team.

Later that morning we leave Tlemcen and head south for the Sahara. The road is reasonable, running straight, horizon to horizon, through a flat, semi-desert landscape of gritty sand with sparse, scrubby vegetation.

Three Swedish motor-cyclists we'd seen at the border pass us, dust pluming from their wheels.

We pick up a hitch-hiker who is studying English Literature at Oran University. Having been told that I'm a writer, he discusses with me at length Victorian Gothic novels and Faulkner's treatment of time and use of 'stream of consciousness' techniques, subjects about which he is much better informed than I am. He complains that at Oran too many of the lecturers are more concerned with their own status than with teaching. When we drop him off near his home village he insists on giving me a ball-point pen.

Near Mecheria we pull some way off the road and set up camp near a clump of bushes. It's a real struggle getting tent-pegs into the rocky ground. The three Swedish bikers set up camp next to us and join us for coffee after dinner. It's their first night under canvas since leaving Sweden ten days ago. They seem to be well equipped, though, even to the extent of having small radios and microphones built into their helmets so they can remain in contact on the road.