But then again, yachts are a great example of how small spaces can be turned into a comfortable habitat.

THE CONCEPT

Matzker, in Cologne, Germany, has succeeded in creating a comfortable expedition truck without jeopardising the ability of the Defender 130.

Outside, the Defender’s characteristic features remain unchanged and the overall dimensions of (LxWxH) 5330 x 1830 x 2315 mm are well-proportioned. The mdx is just as much at home in small remote villages as it is on the steppe.

The cabin, made of 26/28 mm carbon fiber and closed-cell rigid foam, has a pop-up roof with a large zippered mesh window. Each sidewall has two tilting windows and there’s another in the back door. The rear cross member is reinforced to accommodate a trailer hitch.

Inside, there is a full sized double bed in the roof and a smaller one below. The left side of the cabin has a wardrobe, a worktop, stove, four drawers and five cupboards. Opposite is another wardrobe and a cupboard housing the electronics.

The seating area has room for two and can be quickly converted into the smaller of the two beds. The furniture is made from impregnated Gabun plywood with Alucobond fascias and accoustically insulated.

With the roof lifted, there is plenty of standing room even for those of us close to two metres tall. The interior is amply dimensioned for two even if bad weather has you couped up for longer stretches at a time. At a pinch, you can even squeeze four around the table.

The cockpit is exactly what you would expect from a Defender. However, the front seats can still be pushed far back, because there isn’t a cabin wall in the way. The roof has a black lining which conceals additional insulation.

If you’re looking to upgrade performance or personalise the vehicle with accessories, Matzker has plenty of options to choose from.

In summary, the mdx is a fully equipped overland truck that will carry its passengers in comfort to the remotest of destinations. Just drive, park, push up the roof, and feel at home.

With a brief description of the vehicle out of the way, let’s move on with the experience.

THE JOURNEY

It was the end of February 2016, and time for the inaugural trip in our mdx.

On hindsight, we’d certainly invested a lot of time weighing up the pros and cons of all kinds of vehicles before before finally settling on the Matzker mdx at the end of 2014. In our opinion, the mdx’s ideal balance between interior space and vehicle agility ultimately tipped the scales in its favour. With the Defender’s production days numbered, this was also possibly the last opportunity to buy one new. In September 2015, we finally took delivery of Max, our dream car.

We chose Morocco for our springtime maiden voyage because we could realistically expect to see a lot in the four weeks we had available. The country offers culture, friendly people and, above all, fantastic landscapes. The planned route meant we could test Max’s capability in all kinds of terrain. The journey from Germany to Genoa and onwards from Tangier to Marrakech proved that the mdx is perfectly suitable for the highway, even with its knobbly MT tyres. The extra interior insulation and Recaro seats also played a significant role in making the long drive comfortable. With an average fuel consumption of 11.3 l/100 km and a tank capacity of around 240 litres, fuel stops were few and far between.

South of Marrakesh, we finally reached the mdx’s natural habitat. The mountain passages of the High Atlas over the Tizi n’Tichka Pass, where there was still snow, were mastered easily. We were pleasantly surprised by the tight turning circle in the hairpin bends, thanks to the widened track and adapted suspension settings. We left the main road at every opportunity and looked for nice camping spots on the edge of the numerous dry river beds. The decision to use a compact vehicle proved absolutely correct, especially in the ancient clay villages which were not built with cars in mind. A Unimog or MAN, which we had also toyed with, would have simply been unable to pass through.

Donkey carts and mopeds are the most prolific modes of transport in rural southern Morocco, so we were usually alone on the roads. What we’d normally consider a poor dirt track by German standards, can easily pass for a main road here. We followed the Draa Valley, which at the time was quite dry, and marvelled at the oases, kasbahs, and the geologically diverse mountainscapes. Beyond the valley, the rocky landscape and umbrella acacias reminded us of the East African steppe we’d seen in Tanzania and Kenya.

On our way toward Erg Chegaga, the route was littered with uneven boulder-strewn tracks which really gave the vehicle (and its passengers) a thorough shake. The auxilliary tank shifted on its mountings and rubbed against the propshaft when the suspension compressed. So, we visited Ali Nassir’s famous rally workshop in Zagora. Even though we hadn’t booked a slot, four mechanics soon set to work while we drank tea and savoured a tasty tajine. A pleasant way to pass the time during an impromptu service stop and by early evening, our small problem had been resolved.

In comparison, driving through the soft sand in the dunes near M’hamid was a real pleasure. We lowered the tyre pressures to 1.6 bar and used the on-board compressor to pump them back up again when we returned to the firmer roads leading to Foum-Zguid.

In the past, we’d travelled with tents or a borrowed rooftop tent. So, we quickly settled into the luxury of our cabin with its ambient lighting, on-demand heating and a clear view of the stars. Add to that the ample water supply, solar panels and auxilliary fuel tank, we were self-sufficient and didn’t need campsites. Travelling in Max became more of a pleasure with every passing day. It was simply wonderful to immerse ourselves in nature, photograph the sunrises and sunsets, and meet the local communities. Sometimes we picked spots where camels came to see what we were having for breakfast, or goats joined us in the shade of a tree.

We left the Draa valley near Foum-Zguid and entered the Anti-Atlas. The drought of the last couple of years meant the whole region was arid. The terraced fields of the mountain villages were all but invisible, because the seeds hadn’t sprouted. We found ourselves a spot of level ground between the only two blossoming almond trees and it didn’t take long before one of the villagers and his donkey stopped by to welcome us and point out the nearest well.

We eventually found the best panoramas close to Tafraoute. The famous blue rocks had faded quite considerably since our last visit five years previously and were covered in graffiti. Even so, the naturally formed spherical and conical granite boulders are a sight to be seen and provide a stunning backdrop for sunsets.

We could have spent weeks in the Anti-Atlas, but our ferry was beconning and we soon had to head north again if we didn’t want to miss it. The best option to cover the 800 km from Agadir to Tangier, is to join the brand new, completely empty and well-developed highway. Suffice to say, we were happy to pay the toll and easily covered the distance in a single day. Max even proved his worth in the Tangier rush hour traffic. Certainly not the ideal environment for an mdx, but our winch bumper, the G4 bar and the vehicle height ensured a sufficiently menacing stance that gave us pole position at the roundabouts. What’s more, the narrow streets in the old town are so steep in places that the low gear ratios make manoeuvering in and out of parking slots much easier.

CONCLUSION

All in all, driver and vehicle had a great opportunity to get to know each other during the four week trip. We are already looking forward to the next tour with Max, which could very well be to Morocco again because the mdx is destined to be there.

MATZKER

Introduction: Mike Brailey
Images and Text: Jörg Ermisch

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Kingsley Holgate: explorer, humanitarian, author, and a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society

In case you’re not familiar with the name, Kingsley Holgate is a South African explorer, humanitarian, author, and a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. In 2009, he was described by Getaway Magazine as “the most travelled man in Africa,” more than a little reminiscent of the iconic David Livingstone.

It was the end of October 2021, and Kingsley was heading out on a new adventure, one of his greatest yet. After 20 months of lockdown, “all adventurers will agree, it’s time to move again,” says Kingsley. And he notes that this expedition has been almost two years in the making.

The New Defender Transcontinental Expedition will start at Africa’s southernmost tip, Cape L’Agulhas, travel to Alexandria, then reach all the way up to the Nordkapp before heading down again and westward across Europe and the United Kingdom to the Welsh coast and the Irish Sea. The journey will cover approximately 30,000 km and 30 countries, including a visit to the New Defender’s manufacturing site in Slovakia, before ending at Red Wharf Bay on the Isle of Anglesey where, in 1947, Maurice Wilks etched the first drawing of a Land Rover in the sand.

As we have all come to appreciate over the years, when Kingsley Holgate climbs into his car to go places, he will be doing something significant along the way. In his own words, “all our expedition have the principle of saving and improving lives through adventure.”

In keeping with this principle, the New Defender Transcontinental Expedition includes projects such as Malaria Prevention, Mashozi’s Rite to Sight, Water Purification, Early Childhood Development, endangered species conservation, and other environmental and humanitarian activities, all of which are covered in more detail on the Foundation’s website kingsleyholgate.com.

COMBATTING MALARIA IN AFRICA

The mosquito is the most dangerous predator in Africa and transmits malaria which kills young children at the rate of one per minute. Kingsley has been influential in building awareness for the problem by lecturing about the risks, teaching prevention, and distributing free mosquito nets to populations living in remote areas.

MASHOZI’S RITE TO SIGHT

The Rite to Sight project was first initiated by Mashozi (Gill) Holgate during the 2003 23°27’ Tropic of Capricorn round-the-world expedition which lasted 18 months. Since then, the Holgate Foundation has distributed more than 218,700 pairs of eyeglasses to mostly elderly people living in remote areas. Venturing into some of the remotest areas, the team set up a gathering point, test the visitors, and fit those who need them with a pair of eyeglasses on the spot.

THE SEND-OFF

The predetermined location for the send-off party was Point L’Agulhas, not only the southernmost tip of Africa, but also where the Indian and Atlantic oceans really meet. There was a good turnout of well-wishers, but of particular significance was the Guard of Honour which was made up of fourteen or fifteen Land Rover Series 1 models—a fitting parade to send off its youngest descendent on what would also be the marque’s first significant expedition since the new Defender’s launch several years prior. Each of the cars that joined the party was given a special Defender Transcontinental Expedition sticker bearing the flags of South Africa, Norway, and England. Kingsley even managed to leave an inscription on several Series 1s.

SEVERAL RITUALS MARK THE BEGINNING OF EVERY KINGSLEY HOLGATE EXPEDITION

FIRSTLY, the Zulu Calabash. Partially charged with water from the combined oceans, it will carry its fill from South Africa to Alexandria and the Mediterranean, then to the Nordkapp and the Barents Sea. At each of these significant waypoints, the contents will be added to so that the combined water can finally be ceremoniously emptied from the calabash into the Irish Sea at Red Wharf Bay.

SECONDLY, the Expedition Scroll of Peace and Goodwill. Each expedition documents the places it visits and the people met along the way in a beautifully bound ledger which is produced especially by Melvill & Moon for each occasion. By the end of the expedition, hundreds of pages will be adorned with anecdotes and signatures. I, too, was able to leave my mark along with so many others during these first few days.

THIRDLY, the Speech or Wisdom Sharing, as I feel is a more appropriate way of describing it. Kingsley Holgate is gifted with the ability to tell meaningful stories and to draw his audience in so close that he catches your gaze and seems to talk to you at a very personal level.

It’s not just the big beard and deep voice that draws people to him, it’s his ability to convey what he has to say with clarity, charm, and a mannerism that leaves the listener yearning for more. Born in Africa to a missionary family, Kingsley was fascinated by the stories his father told him about explorers. Whilst growing up he learned to speak Zulu and understand what it means to live so close to nature and to be at one with Mama Africa.

This occasion was, of course, no different and he told us the story of “The Pebbles of Life.” Seven stones that mark various stages on a person’s journey though life.

PEBBLES OF LIFE Taking seven pebbles from his pocket, he explains that each pebble represents a period of ten summers. Seven pebbles equals seventy years or a span of life we can hope to enjoy so long as we are spared anything too untoward along the way.

Addressing one of the audience, he asks, “how old are you?”—“53,” replies the man.

“Well, I’ll grant you three years as a bonus,” says Kingsley as hse discards five of the pebbles and explains “fifty years are gone. Hopefully you have memories filled with adventures, happiness, and no regrets. But the years are gone and there is no point in trying to relive the past. You just have to focus on what lies ahead.”

“And the seventh pebble joins the five, because there is no guarantee that you’ll be strong or able-bodied enough to enjoy that final decade.”

Taking a brief moment, he looks at the last remaining pebble thoughtfully before placing it in the man’s palm. “Put it in your pocket. It’s going to become quite an inconvenience. It’ll tangle with your keys and get mixed up in loose change. But, at the end of every day, you will retire it to a spot next to your bed and return it to your pocket the following morning. You’ll hold it unconsciously, rub it smooth between your fingers, and accept it as a constant reminder for you to make time for adventure.”

The moral behind the story of the Pebbles of Life: It’s telling us to fell a conscious decision to shed any kind a monotonous and potentially mundane life in favour of getting out to enjoy the awesome adventures life and Mama Africa hold in store.

FOURTHLY, the Isivivane. Independent of the aforementioned story of stones, the Zulu word isivivane translates to throw your stone upon the pile. Whereas today, a monument is designed by an architect and constructed by employed workers, Zulu tradition anticipated each and every person contributing to and respecting something significant by literally throwing a stone upon the pile, thus creating a collective memory for future reference. Isivivane is also a metaphor for change which in itself is a steadfast component of all of Kingsley’s expeditions.

There will be four isivivanes constructed at notable stages of the expedition: Point L’Agulhas, Alexandria, Nordkapp, and Maurice Wilks’ graveside.

FIRST DAYS OF THE EXPEDITION

Having left Point L’Agulhas, I was now travelling with the expedition. Our first stop was a village where we would work on behalf of Mashozi’s Rite to Sight. It is quite remarkable to witness the change a person experiences when suddenly equipped with eye correction glasses. Everything necessary was on board from eyesight test screens—some with the alphabet, others with animals—to frames and lenses so that a needy person could be fitted immediately.

An authentic South African braai

Thereafter, we continued to Kruger National Park where we stayed in traditionally styled huts, had an amazing meal which included a speciality made from beef, garlic and cheese, talked, listened to more stories and, also a Kingsley Holgate tradition, savoured some Captain Morgan rum.

I was parcel to this journey for only a few days, but the experience and having to leave such a charismatic person and his partners proved a moving moment for me. Given the choice, I would have stuck with the Kingsley Holgate Foundation. Not merely for the sake of the journey, but to participate in all the good this handful of people are about to spread amongst numerous communities on its, in parts quite dangerous, path through Africa and Europe.

Keep well.

Text and images: Christian Huntgeburth

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I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little skeptical of the true intensity that lay ahead. In just a matter of minutes my skepticism would be put to rest. Floating through the soft and sandy two track with the roar of the engine reaching a new level, the steering wheel resisted any sort of instruction as we weaved our way into the bush. No sooner had the words “Be on the watch for elephants” left Anton’s mouth when my knees hit the dash of the Defender.

“Elle! Elle straight ahead!”

My eyes strained to focus as I looked through the windshield, only to see an adult female elephant charging directly at us. As if from a scene in Jurassic Park, Anton calmly said: “Do not move. At all.”

The soft click of my camera lens was all that I responded with. I watched in awe as she came to an abrupt halt, digging in her front heels and shaking the dust off her now fully deployed ears. A few seconds later and the whole encounter was over, leaving the convoy at a loss for words. As Anton put the car into gear again and slowly rolled past the elephant tracks, I had gained a whole new perspective on what the word “wild” meant in Southern Africa.

Pushing through kilometres of increasingly difficult terrain revealed just how important each member of this team would be in the hours and days to come. Karl, the resident optometrist for 4x4Outfar, along with his wife Adi, often held the group together with a mixture of caffeine and light-hearted banter. Keeping spirits up across the radio as the height of water crossings went from lug nut, to over-tire, and at times over the hood, or as they say in South Africa, “over the bonnet.” Cam, our fearless videographer, was often running barefoot at full speed back and forth between rigs to capture the true nature of what we were getting ourselves into.

The farther we crept into the wilderness, the more the road began to turn to mud, Bogging down our extremely well-equipped vehicles and creating hour-long rescue missions. Ivor, a skilful man of few words, and his daughter Megan, took up the role of leading our pack through unknown water. Our routine of “walking it” became an all too familiar occurrence when staring down the 50-meter watering holes on our route. At times we even made the decision to cut a new road alongside the standing water, only to find stubborn mud, stumps, and the occasional downed trees. Hour after hour we made our way through the bush, until a moment came that felt uncomfortably quiet. 90 kilometres into our push, with another 60 kilometres still ahead of us, the engine in Anton’s Defender came to a sputtering halt. We were officially stuck.

The sun was shining down on miles and miles of wilderness in every direction, and we were right in the middle of it. Noticing our journey had gone from a confident yet progressive struggle to a much more serious scenario, Anton reached for the satellite phone to send out an SOS.

Not knowing if help would make its way to us before sundown, we made our best effort to pull the Defender with a tow line through mangled bush road. Ultimately, we realised that the Defender had to be left behind. Grabbing only the bare essentials, we packed Anton, his wife Melita, and daughter Cayla into the remaining three vehicles and watched Anton’s Defender disappear into the bush through the rear view mirrors.

It was clear with one vehicle down, the stakes became higher at each water crossing. Knowing that if something else failed, our likelihood of getting out would be close to zero. Chatter continued to come across the radio as we raced the daylight. As we watched the soggy green landscape pass by, our eyes grew wide hearing the radio crackle. Adi’s voice came through with the words, “rigs on the horizon!” A wave of relief washed over the entire team. We were greeted soon after by two safari patrols sent out from a lodge to respond to Anton’s SOS.

Hopping out of our vehicles we shared a moment of pure gratitude with our new lodge companions. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Anton with his head buried in a well-deserved moment of emotion. Knowing our journey wasn’t over yet, Anton joined the safari convoy retracing our path to recover his beloved vehicle. Let’s just say that the radio was full of light-hearted jokes as we pressed on.

On the final leg of our trek to the other side of the Okavango Delta, we found ourselves in another pickle. The safari patrol leading the way home fell to the same fate as we had so many times earlier. Wheels buried and high-centred in the mud. This was almost routine for them, and we watched the locals demonstrate their seemingly effortless recovery skills. In a fraction of the time we would have spent ourselves, they used the surroundings to their advantage and were back in action. As fate would have it, Anton’s Defender was able to be rebooted and he even managed to switch roles, giving an assist to the bogged-down safari patrol… Something I don’t think he’ll let any of us forget any time soon.

The rest of our community vision work with 4x4Outfar went off without a hitch. Each village we were able to visit and provide testing would become a testament to the resilience only to be found in a team that is truly committed to its mission. When all was said and done, this trip would see the 4x4Outfar team provide vision testing for over 2,000 children, and distribute 86 pairs of prescription eyeglasses to some of the most deserving and compassionate communities I’ve ever encountered.

On the return trip to the airport, Anton expressed how grateful he and his team have been for the love and support they’ve received from the iKamper community around the world. How much it means to them to be able to go out and do this work to Love People & Love Nature. I told him that one wouldn’t exist without the other.

As the plane took off, I got one last look down at that line in the wild I saw weeks ago. Returning my gaze to the seat back in front of me, I couldn’t help but write these few words down: “The wrong road for the right reasons…the legend of Anton Poplett.”

Text: Eric Gordon | Images: Eric Gordon, Cameron Stuart and courtesy of Anton Poplett

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As I flew from Seattle to the unspoiled landscape of Botswana, I looked down and saw a single road cutting through one of the wildest places on Earth. Little did I know I would soon be standing in the middle of a road just like that one, thigh-deep in muddy water, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

I first connected with Anton close to a year ago. I had received an email about his work providing life-changing prescription eyewear to children in some of the most remote villages of Southern Africa. After a few calls back and forth with Anton, it was clear this was a story that needed to be heard. As a part of iKamper’s commitment to Love People & Love Nature, we dedicated our 2021 Giveback Giveaway to support Anton’s work with 4x4Outfar (4x4outfar.com). The iKamper community showed its true colours and donated more than US$20,000 to further 4x4Outfar’s work. Fast forward six months, and as I watched muddy water spill over the hood of Anton’s 2010 Defender, there was no doubt left in my mind…this guy, his team, and their positive impact on the community are the real deal.

Leading up to this trip, the word “wild” seemed to find its way into conversations with Anton quite regularly. As an avid adventure seeker in my own right, I took it with a grain of salt knowing that word can mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people. I know now that I’d be leaving with a whole new understanding of “wild” by the time I left Botswana.

When I landed in Maun, Botswana after a leg-cramping 48 hours of airport travel, Anton was waiting to greet me with what I would come to know as South African hospitality. As we drove, Anton explained that possibly the most important piece of this adventure was situated right next to my luggage. A fully self-sufficient prescription eyewear inventory and diagnostic system that allowed him and his team to do what they do successfully. Over the next week and a half, I learned just how impactful this corrective eyewear system would be. As well as how essential the Skycamp 2.0 was to complete the 4x4Outfar team’s rigs.

We pulled up to the first school and established an order of operations that would become more and more efficient as each day of the trip passed.

• Step 1. Find the best-shaded area in the schoolyard to park our rigs. Almost always under massive trees in the middle of the property.
• Step 2. Measure out a four-meter distance from the side of our vehicles where eye charts were mounted. The classic ones you might recognise from your own childhood eye exams.
• Step 3. Greet the kids who have already spilled out of their classrooms with excitement, and separate them into lines with the help of the school teachers.

Starting with the large “E” at the top of the chart, a chorus of “Good!” and “Well done!” echoed throughout the schoolyard as the testing was underway. Followed by bursts of laughter and curiosity from children waiting in line. Eventually, a small group of children would form a new line for secondary testing.

This is when the real work begins. Often paired with a local teacher, Anton’s crew would take what they like to call the “You See” glasses, and gently fit them on a child’s face. USee glasses have one small opening for each eye with a dial on either side to adjust lenses and identify prescription strength needed. Once the initial confusion was sorted out, the children would turn the dial for each eye and watch as their world slowly came into focus for the first time. After a few minutes to set the prescription lenses into frames, we were handing the children a brand new pair of eyeglasses on the spot.

Like many youngsters, they were often shy at first and would calmly walk away, but as soon as they got back to their group of friends a big smile would appear on their faces and life would pick up right where it left off. Teachers at each school would share with us some of the struggles that certain students had been experiencing simply because they couldn’t see what was written on the chalkboard. Watching children struggle to discern even the largest letters on the vision chart, it hit home that they have been living with this issue every moment of every day. For many of us, an issue like this would be identified and dealt with at a very early age. 4x4Outfar’s work is giving these children the chance see clearly for the first time in their lives.

Anton and his team have been doing this work for close to four years now. They shared a particular story with me that was very similar to the schoolyard in front of me. On a previous trip, they helped a young boy with prescription lenses. After receiving his new glasses, he improved exponentially in school, and along the way even taught himself how to knit. Anton explained to me that over the past two years this young man was able to knit scarves and sell them to support his family. Eventually earning enough to buy himself a brand-new school uniform.

Stories like these, along with so many others, demonstrate the incredible ripple effect of this work. When a community of people comes together to spread love far beyond their borders, that is what it truly means to Love People & Love Nature.

Text: Eric Gordon | Images: Eric Gordon and Cameron Stuart

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More than 60 years have passed since that memorable moment. There were three of us: Collyn, Rex, and myself. We had met at the de Havilland Aircraft Company in Hatfield, England. Collyn was an electronics engineer while Rex and I were apprentices; we shared an interest in vintage cars and had become friends.

Collyn subsequently left de Havilland to join the research department of Bedford/Vauxhall Motors while I, after my apprenticeship, went to what was then called Southern Rhodesia to become a learner miner. Two years later, in 1959, after I had hitchhiked from Rhodesia to Kenya, I was invited on a journey Collyn had planned to drive from England to South Africa and back with him and Rex. There could only be one response to such an invitation.

It was entirely Collyn who conceived and organised the trip, inspired by the lack of solid data about road conditions across Africa—information sorely needed for realistic testing of vehicles being built for that continent. His employer could not justify financial support for such a venture but made available an unused Bedford QLR 4WD truck for a nominal £100.

Collyn set about researching sponsors for what he called the TransAfrica Survey Expedition. The most vital of these was Mobil Oil, which provided political assistance, and fuel and oil for the entire expedition. The British Army supplied 100 kilograms of experimental dehydrated food that proved excellent.

What I brought to the table was some experience of Africa; a rudimentary knowledge of French, Chilapalapa, and Swahili; plus a small amount of money, which turned out to be rather less than my fellow travellers had hoped. Between us, we had a total of about £550, but decided to keep most of it for emergencies—such as how to get home should the truck break down.

The QL Bedford was designed just prior to WW2 as a versatile off-road military vehicle able to carry three tonnes virtually anywhere. With a fully laden weight of seven tonnes, the QL was powered by a 3.5-litre petrol engine designed in the early 1930s by Chevrolet. This provided a rarely attained (and governed) top speed of 32 mph (about 50 kph). Whilst a fully laden QL makes an overladen oxen-drawn timber wagon seem like a Ferrari, it had a meager bottom gear ratio of 104:1. Even a minor gradient would slow it to walking pace. Still, given enough time, a QL could virtually climb the side of a house. Ours was the rare QLR version. It was built in early 1940 as an emergency aircraft runway control hub but was never used. The QLR had a massive centre-mounted winch, a 12-volt, 600-amp dynamo the size of a large garbage bin, and a giant air compressor. Front and rear axles were driven by separate power shafts from the huge centre-mounted transfer box. The spacious but very heavy metal body was heat-insulated, with opening windows protected by sliding bulletproof shutters. We converted the rear into crude living quarters.

The QLR originally had two 180-litre fuel tanks, and we added three more the same size, plus five 20-litre jerry cans. The resultant 1,000 litres (about 1.2 tonnes) provided a safe 3,500-kilometre range for the Saharan crossings and the ability to cross Europe without refuelling. We carried 700 litres of water (another 700 kilograms). Cooking was via a couple of paraffin-fuelled Tilley pressure stoves. Internal lighting was 12-volt electric.

Apart from preserved food and a large quantity of spares, we also carried a typewriter, letter-headed notepaper, and a selection of rubber stamps with multi-coloured pads to prepare suitable documents for border crossings. The issue date for some of the papers had to be within six months of being presented, which was simply not possible given our anticipated travel time to reach that spot.

I joined Collyn and Rex in Paris, where Collyn picked me up at the Gare du Nord in what seemed to me to be a truly humongous truck painted bright blue. I had never driven anything so large and was a bit startled by the sight of it. Obtaining permission to cross the Sahara involved two months of battling French bureaucracy in the Paris Surrete. Hugely assisted by Mobil Oil’s political clout, they eventually relented, and permits were granted, conditional on our driving in Algeria only outside the curfew hours of 4:00 p.m. to 9:00 a.m.

When we reached the heavily fortified border post between Morocco and Algeria, we were immediately directed to an inspection pit where the truck was given a once-over by teams of both police and military. Meanwhile, we were all hustled off to a building where we were thoroughly body searched and our papers examined. The first 100 meters after leaving the post was along a road bordered by barbed wire with a machine gun trained on us for the entire distance. Welcome to Algeria, we thought. A curfew was strictly enforced at 4:00 p.m., and we spent every night in a military camp where we shared an evening meal with the French soldiers—a hearty feast served with carafes of red and white wine that impressed us, the young lads, to no end.

Our route took us through the beautiful coastal cities of Oran and Algiers, which looked exactly like France to our youthful eyes. Along the roads, we passed toppled power pylons and military Jeeps equipped with a wire-cutting device to protect the occupants from being decapitated by wires strung at head height across the roads. Roadside signs in French proclaimed that Algeria was part of France and it was her right and duty to see it remained so.

We contacted the Mobil office in Algiers, without whose help it would have been extremely difficult (if not downright impossible) to obtain our permits to cross the Sahara.

We finally set off south. The QLR was beginning to run very rough with a considerable loss in power, which could not have happened in a worse place as we started the climb up the rugged Atlas Mountains. We passed notices saying it was forbidden to stop and were overtaken by gigantic Berliet trucks driven by Arab drivers banging on their doors with their fists and shouting Vite! Vite! This area was reckoned to be one of the most dangerous in the whole of Algeria. At every bridge was a guard post with an entrance door pockmarked with bullet holes, high up and accessible only by a ladder pulled up after use. In his North country accent, Rex gloomily remarked, “Now I know what a sitting duck feels like.”

Eventually, we reached the high point at 1,200 metres (3,900 feet), where temperatures were only a few degrees above freezing. We set about trying to figure out what was wrong with the engine and concluded that the problem must be internal. We parked in an alley that seemed reasonably secure and removed the cylinder head for the first of what ultimately turned out to be five times. On this occasion, three of the exhaust valves were completely burnt out, with one having a great split. It took hours of work to replace and grind the valves and recut the valve seats. Fortunately, we had the parts and knowledge to diagnose and fix the problem, which would continue to plague us for the rest of the trip.

Not too far south of here, we reached the outskirts of the desert. Just beyond the town of Laghouat, we passed a road sign that read “Capetown 13,000 kilometres.” We were now finally free of security restrictions, and a weight was lifted from our shoulders. Ironically, the great Sahara Desert—covering an area bigger than the contiguous USA and considerably larger than Australia—had become a relatively safe area compared to the settled and developed coastal zones.

At that time, the Sahara was extremely well administered by the French. We had to check in at each oasis settlement or town where our permits were examined. Before continuing, we had to provide an ETA for arrival at the next checkpoint. If we failed to show up within the agreed interval after that time, a search party would be organised to look for us. They would charge for the search, but at least you would be alive to pay for it.

North of the town of In Salah, we crossed the seemingly endless, stony Tademaït Plateau, which, after two days of teeth-rattling corrugations, terminated abruptly without any warning. Here we stopped for the night. I slept outside on a camp bed with my head towards the truck, so it was out of sight, and when I awoke the following morning, I was greeted by a magical view over a landscape imbued by the rosy fingers of dawn.

Further south, at an elevation of 1,320 metres (4,330 feet) set in the moonlike Ahaggar Mountains, Tamanrasset is an important oasis city and the capital of Tamanrasset Province of southern Algeria. Built entirely of mud, it has for centuries been the trading centre for camel caravans from Kano, Lake Chad, Agadez, and Zinder, all of which we would visit. It was originally established as a military outpost to guard the trans-Saharan trade routes, and a relaxed but efficient atmosphere remained.

Once past Tamanrasset, the track gradually lost elevation through rocky terrain and entered an area of sand where there was no defined track—more a preferred direction of travel delineated by slim posts about 10 kilometres apart. Navigating by compass or the direction of the sun in what you hoped was the correct general direction, the next post could usually be spotted via binoculars from the QLR’s handy gun turret when about midway between the two. This was a tricky part of the crossing as it was often necessary to veer to the left or right for several kilometres to skirt soft sand. It was thus vital to remember whether one had veered to the left or the right of the presumed line between the route markers. We still managed to get stuck and had to dig out using our sand mats.

When miles from the nearest oasis town, we would come across small camel caravans crossing our southerly track at right angles. We would always stop at these encounters, and they would often ask for such items as water or maybe matches. These we would supply if we could, and they always gave something in return—perhaps a piece of rock-hard cheese made from camel milk or, on one occasion, an enamel basin of still-warm milk. The unwritten law of the desert was that if you saw another vehicle or person stationary, you would always stop to check on the other party’s condition.

In Niger’s Agadez, which dates to the 15th and 16th centuries, we saw many Tuareg, a nomadic people of the desert who practice a distinctive brand of Islam. Many make daily prayers to Allah, but strict adherence to other religious requirements is rare. Tuareg men begin wearing a veil at age 25, which conceals the entire face, excluding their eyes. This veil is never removed, even in front of family members. It is believed that men began wearing the dark blue veil to protect their faces from the Sahara sands. Tuareg women are not veiled.

The desert gradually morphed into the Sahel, a vast semi-desert area south of the Sahara, stretching from the Atlantic to the Red Sea. We began to see more people and animals even as the condition of the track deteriorated. Driving was arduous, and we worked two-hour shifts. The track would drop abruptly into dry river beds, and after 12 hours of driving, we covered 159 miles at an average speed of 13 mph. Swarms of locusts filled the sky and battered against the windshield. Collyn bitterly complained, “Don’t they know this is the main road to Europe!” Obviously, this matter did not figure very highly in the priorities of the locals.

We entered Niger at Zinder and continued on to Kano in Nigeria. After so many miles in French-controlled territory, it was strange to see road signs in English, and we were unsure which side of the road to drive. The procedure was to drive in the middle and then, depending on which country you were in, swerve right or left when meeting oncoming traffic. Crossing borders was a game of chicken: you let the other guy dodge first and then acted accordingly.

Nigeria was within a few months of independence from Britain, so we had to tread carefully when addressing officials to avoid any hint of giving instructions. This turned out to be a serious problem at the Kano Post Office, where we went to collect our mail. We were initially told that there was none for us, but we noticed that the mail, supposedly sorted by addressee’s name, was all jumbled up in no order whatsoever. Any comment on our part was taken as unacceptable criticism, which resulted in a total lack of cooperation.

Our map showed a direct road going straight to Fort-Archambault, but when we arrived at the banks of the Logone River, we found no bridge, ferry, or river crossing—just a bunch of unclothed villagers not at all pleased at our presence. We were persuaded to seek an alternative route which led us down a track where the grass was higher than the windshield, and we got stuck in a bog.

Along this unplanned diversion with Collyn at the wheel, Rex and I were riding on the roof rack when we spotted an abrupt dip into a dried river bed directly ahead. As the truck failed to slow down, we realised at the last minute that Collyn had not seen it, and we hung on for dear life. We hit the dip at about 15 mph and everything, including Rex and myself, became airborne, resulting in a total shambles inside the truck. After recriminations and sorting ourselves out, we continued for about a mile when I asked Rex lightheartedly whether we still had a spare wheel. Rex crawled back to take a look and reported it was missing. We turned back and spent more than an hour searching for it in the long grass but never found it. According to Sod’s Law, we had our first puncture the following day and were forced to deal with it right there and then. It was very difficult to break the tyre free from the wheel without proper equipment. At one point, the three of us linked arms and simultaneously commenced jumping up and down in unison to try to budge it. That method failed miserably, but we eventually succeeded with the usual hammers and tyre levers.

We encountered many local vehicles broken down along the way, many of which we tried to help. The most serious was a truck with two halves of a broken chassis resting on the ground. We jacked it up, pulled the two halves together with our winch, and fashioned a fishplate to hold the two halves together. We had no power tools, so holes had to be drilled with a “gut-buster” hand drill. The driver was very grateful and gave us two live chickens and some grapefruit and wanted to buy us some beer but the shop was closed.

As we headed south, we began to encounter more rivers. The larger ones were crossed by ferries, two to three boats tied alongside each other and straddled by a platform with a ramp at each end. Other rivers had very dodgy timber bridges. On rare occasions, when a weight limit was shown, it was always much less than the weight of the QLR. We had little choice but to take a chance because a different route would have meant a diversion of over 1,000 miles, and there was no guarantee that other bridges would be any better. Whoever’s turn it was to drive took the wheel; one of us would guide the driver while the other stood by with a camera to take pictures of what seemed likely to be a surefire disaster. One bridge was shared with a railway, and we had to make sure no train was coming.

In the Congo, a direct contrast to the desert we had been in a mere four weeks earlier, we were startled on one of our first nights by a series of disturbingly loud, creaking cries, released at ever-closer intervals, culminating in blood-curdling shrieks that sounded exactly like someone being murdered. We were distressed to be in our truck all alone, surrounded by dense jungle in this forest of noise. The alarming sounds turned out to be made by a small animal called a rock hyrax, about the size of a rabbit. Bizarrely, their nearest relative is the elephant.

We also met some Pygmies who lived in the jungle, whose average height was around 5 feet tall. Armed with tiny bows about 2 feet long with the “string” (a flat strip from bamboo) about 8 inches from the bow, their primitive weapons were surprisingly accurate and could hit a cigarette from 20 yards. Select arrows were tipped with poison. The men spoke some Swahili and explained that they tested the poison’s strength by nicking a leg so the blood ran down, then put a knife edge below the nick, touching the poison to the blood trail below to see if it coagulated. We were struck by the fact that we would have been at a loss surviving in their world—just as it would have been for them to survive in ours.

As we approached the eastern fringes of the jungle, the road began to climb, and we came across plantations of coffee, papayas, and bananas. In the far distance, we caught glimpses of the snow-covered peaks of the Ruwenzori Mountains (also known as the Mountains of the Moon) which rise to heights of over 4,800 metres (16,000 feet). As we emerged from the jungle, it stretched below us like a vast green carpet reaching the distant horizon. A concrete sign marked the equator at 7,200 feet. The truck was not happy at this elevation and began to misfire and splutter in indignation. After climbing 2,360 metres (7,750 feet), the road descended towards the Great Rift Valley and the Albert National Park, since renamed the Virunga National Park. As we turned a bend in the road, the view stretched out below us, a vast plain with mountains on the far side and, beyond them, barely visible through the mist, the shapes of three volcanoes. To our left, the expanse of Lake Edward (since renamed Lake Rutanzige) stretched into the distance. The valley floor was alive with animals, and through binoculars, we could see elephants, buffalo, zebras, giraffes, and many types of antelopes peacefully grazing on the rich green grass. It was indeed the epitome of a promised land flowing with milk and honey.

We crossed into Northern Rhodesia, which became the independent country of Zambia in 1964. In the town of Kitwe, we stayed with another de Havilland apprentice and his wife, whom we had all known in England. He was working at one of the copper mines for which the area was famous and was able to arrange a tour of one of the mines. Donning hard hats, we took one of the three-story cages to descend to 1,128 metres (3,700 feet) below ground at a rate of 1,800 feet per minute. You couldn’t help being aware of the thousands of feet of rock above you, but it really does not matter whether it is 5 feet or 5,000. It is bad news either way if it falls on top of you.

While here, we had to remove the cylinder head yet again to regrind the exhaust valves on the QLR. We had concluded that the ongoing problems might be caused by the cooling system not having a pressurised filler cap. Using a piece of wood and some rubber hose, we concocted a valve based on the Schrader valve principle as used on a bicycle tyre. The overflow was fed into a can fixed to the front of the vehicle, accessible from the cab through the opening windshield. The guy in the passenger seat would reach through and feel the weight of the can from time to time, and when he judged the can to be almost full, we would stop and return the expelled water into the cooling system.

Continuing on, we visited Victoria Falls, double the height of Niagara and a 1/2 kilometre wider, its spray visible from 48 kilometres away. The African name, Mosi-oa-Tunya, translates as “the smoke that thunders,” and its majesty was undeniable. Bulawayo, on the border with South Africa, was our farthest point south. The roads in South Africa were considered better than most in Africa and therefore did not meet the definition of our expedition. From here on, we would be traveling north.

A visit to the Kariba Dam over the mighty Zambezi River proved an interesting diversion. The project was still under construction, but the immense lake behind the dam had begun to fill. What had been dubbed Operation Noah was in full swing, rescuing the thousands of animals and reptiles trapped by the rising waters on trees and marooned on temporary islands.

We passed through Tanganyika to Kenya, along a route I had hitchhiked one year ago. I reunited with friends in Mombassa in a buoyant moment and sailed at the yacht club. While there, the British Embassy informed Rex that his mother was dangerously ill in England. He immediately flew home, leaving Collyn and me to continue the journey. We took the road to Nairobi, continuing north to Nanyuki, right on the equator, to my father’s house on the slopes of Mount Kenya with its snow-covered peaks.

We had planned to return north across the Sahara, taking a more westerly route through Timbuktu in Mali. I had always wanted to say I had been to Timbuktu. Unfortunately, the Kano Post Office let us down, and we were unable to receive the requisite permits that had been sent to us c/o Posted Restante in Kano by Mobil in Algiers. This was maddening as we were quite sure the permits were sitting in a stack at the post office. The visas arrived, courtesy of Mobil, who we had contacted for help, on April 22. With the Sahara closing for the summer effective May 1, we left Kano the following day.

We had just made it into the soft sand area in the southern part of the desert when a series of problems with cooling water getting where it definitely shouldn’t be caused us to diagnose a blown cylinder head gasket. There was no choice but to remove the cylinder head yet again. We had run out of new head gaskets, which had led to this problem, but we had no choice but to remove the head and see what we could achieve using pre-used gaskets. The conditions were far from ideal. We were in an area of soft sand blown around by a strong wind. In the QLR, the engine was between the seats in the cab, providing some protection from the swirling sand. We selected the least worn of the gaskets, slathered it with compound, and hoped for the best. Fortunately, the fix succeeded, and we breathed again.

Despite the setback in Tamanrasset, we took a diversion into the dramatic Ahaggar mountains and visited the hermitage of Assekrem, built in 1911 by Charles de Foucauld. We had to climb the final distance on foot from where, at 9,000 feet above sea level, there was a wonderful view over the otherworldly mountains with our now-diminutive truck in the valley below.

Back on the Tademaït Plateau, ferocious vibrations caused the top corners of the cab roof to part company with its side supports above the windshield, and one of the tyres developed an alarming bulge. That, along with many other parts starting to protest, such as the leaf springs and shock absorbers, left us in no doubt that the QLR was showing serious wear and tear after 24,000 miles of mostly unsurfaced roads, and we still had North Africa and the whole of Europe to cross.

Fortunately, our stalwart vehicle managed to cover the remaining distance without serious problems—even transiting the Pyrenees and the Alps with snow drifts exceeding the height of the cab. Nearly home, aboard the ferry crossing the English Channel, passengers noticed the map on the side of our vehicle and commented that we were very brave to have set out on such a feat. I just said that we only drove where people lived, and that’s the simple truth. We arrived home on June 4, 1960, after a journey of almost 25,000 miles.

More than 60 years have passed since I stood, spellbound, beneath the stars in the Sahara Desert. Looking back, it was a unique and life-altering experience. We were all in our twenties and consequently felt somewhat immortal. Most of the countries we passed through were at the end of the colonial period. Everyone we encountered was friendly and helpful; never at any time did we feel threatened. Our timing was fortuitous. The Congo was granted its independence in June 1960 and blew up on March 26, just 12 weeks after we left it. Since then, almost every country we visited has suffered terrorist attacks of one sort or another, disrupting the lives of ordinary people. I do not believe the same trip could be safely undertaken today, but similar adventures still abound if, perhaps, slightly less ambitious. The important thing is not to be discouraged by thoughts of all the things that could go wrong. It’s always easy to come up with a thousand reasons not to do something. Seize the nettle and just do it.

This article first appeared in the 02 | 2023 edition of @overlandeurope

Author: Tony Fleming

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This dish came together with a group of friends before running up three peaks in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. Suddenly, our leftover chips and salsa became a power breakfast to fuel us on an all-day mission in the 14,000-foot range. The three of us hunkered down over a cast-iron pan behind the rig, and in dirtbag ritual, took turns devouring the meal with one shared fork.

This adaptation on the classic Mexican breakfast dish is every peak bagger’s dream. A few eggs, salsa, and the remains of a bag of smashed tortilla chips are all you need to stoke your fire with a zesty morning meal. Of course, you can class it up with cheese and avocado too.

SERVES 2-3
COOK TIME Varies, dependent upon heat/type of pan
ASSEMBLY TIME 5 minutes
EQUIPMENT Propane stove or cooking fire, pan, spatula

2 tablespoons fat
3 large handfuls tortilla chips
2 cups red or green salsa
4 eggs
Shredded cheese, avocado, cilantro (optional)

Heat the fat in the pan over a medium temperature. If the chips aren’t already smashed, break them up into bite-size pieces. Add chips to the pan and toss in the fat until golden.

Pour in the salsa and bring to a simmer. Once the salsa begins to be absorbed into the chips, crack the eggs into the mixture. Using a spatula, scramble the eggs until they are fully cooked.

Remove the pan from the heat. Divide between two or three plates, sprinkle with cheese, sliced avocado, and cilantro if you have them, and devour immediately.

OVERLAND CHEF | Morgan Sjogren
Photography: Jay Kolsch

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