On the rough road – GUINEA-BISSAU to GUINEA

 Often you know when a journey will be difficult, when it with wear you out, when it will numb your bum and tire your mind but hell it will be memorable and etched in your head and so this was one – one, of 100s – that I’ll remember (assuming that a mind-rotting disease doesn’t kick in) but hell for now it’s here. But how did it begin …? I forget.

On the road towards Guinea

NOTE: Presently I am in Labé in the Fouta Djalon region, the lush, canyon-ed high plateau of north-eastern Guinea, writing this on battery by candlelight …  and I’ve drunken several beers at a friendly, hole-in-the-wall bar shortly after the Ramadan fasting came to an end today.

So where was I? Remembering … Okay, let me listen to my audio diary and get back to you …

Koundara: just been talking to Captain Thomas and friends – very drunk soldiers, missing teeth, red berets slopped everywhere. They came into this shack-bar/disco/hotel where I was staying – few other choices … the boss-chick has just gone out to appease them; I fucked her when I arrived – in the morning & in the evening … don’t know where to start … this was on the eve of Ramadan, drinking amid drunk, ragged, aggressive soldiers in a scene from a twisted movie.

Lone hut in the early morning light

This is a country that is deemed the next failed state – here a history of dictatorships and coups and economic mismanagement despite it being a major Bauxite exporter and having other vast mineral riches – Guinea is driven by a general who for the last 20 years has succeeded in keeping himself in power by cheating at the ballot and by changing the rules to suit himself, and who was last shot at in 2005. Even his soldiers, after a pay revision, revolted, but he survived despite an artillery siege at the presidential palace and then after an agreement there followed the sudden execution of mutineers. Today Conte still rules; this is another banana republic that we don’t know or care about. (And I read on the internet this morning that the soldiers just this week are threatening violence again unless pay owed from the late-1990s is paid. But I also hear that nothing will happen until after Ramadan). 

There is no running water; electricity is either occasional in major towns or more likely not at all unless supplied via private generator. And, most roads are appalling.

Which brings me back to the roads – the journey … a test of the will, or at least this western will. Not the most difficult but (that was yesterday on route to Labé – shattered roads that are red clay hard ruts, deep festering holes, thick mud eating trucks; to avoid holes one side of the car driving along road’s outermost edge and other down lower along the mud track, car riding at a sloping 45 degree angle – branches hitting windows. Fucked up but … the mountain slopes often the best traction – less erosion uphill apart from some deep rain ruts that channel down; early in the day passing thatched huts and long green red-tipped grass then and later jungle and  grouped chimpanzees on huge rocks seated calmly in dusk light as we struggle uphill. Followed by cattle and goats across the track – kids waving – when I wave at then – astonished at my white presence – Foto, they call – meaning white in the local tongue. Women with bowls on heads going nowhere obvious but greenery all around and our journey slow, bumpy, broken; painful.

Awaiting more passengers in Koundara “taxi” station

I woke at 6:30 AM in dark, waited till 7:30 for the car to fill and we arrive in dark at 9:30 PM; we have only covered 265 km … we have 4 people in the front including the driver, 3 in the back – only cos I paid double for an extra seat/space, and then 3 more cramped in the boot-bench-seat of the Peugeot 505 over the rear wheel, and one more in the tiny actual boot and two more on top of the heaped baggage on the roof-rack. And so a humble 5-seater hatchback is a 14 seat slave … But this particular journey of Guinea is another story. 

So I forget, I forgot, my mind is rotting … back to this day, this journey: Her name was Monica, 3 babies at age 25, tribal slit cut down along the rims of each ear-lope; when I arrived she offered me sex … fingers placed together then the in-out motion is understandable in any language – especially mine, her washing the rooms – dusty, concrete, lino-clad floors, spider web corners, sunken thin mattress, showers equal water in a bucket, a fan when the generator kicks in at 7 pm … She got on top of me. Twice … actually, five times by the time it was over that evening.

Anyway before that there was the border crossing between Guinea-Bissau and Guinea in a crammed car, no room for legs or arms or beer bellies … that lasted checkpoints and past villages to the now searing mid-day heat of the frontier, where the Immigration officer in a small tatty concrete office was pleasant, decent, friendly but the Customs across the dirt road made me empty my backpack. But I threw off his ambitions of a full search straight away by showing him my dullest aspect of my bag first – here’s my towel, my books, my toothpaste, my … after wanting something from me – he got nothing, he actually thanked me, keen to have met a New Zealander, a nomad who had nothing but his bags – for he understood slight English and I explained my life to him. But then the soldiers in the thatch hut wanted me to enter … Alert: nasty dumb fucks ahead.

River crossing on route to Labé; the barge was broken, so cables welded for 2 hours and then we crossed … by two men turning a wheel we were pulled along the cable to the other side

They tried to intimidate me: 5 of them; unfriendly. They didn’t acknowledge my greetings in English, Islamic salutations, or French. They wanted me to empty my backpack and electronics bag on the dry dirt floor and I realized there was some real danger here of a huge bribe or other hassle. I got shitty, growled – fuck this shit, having already deflected the same nonsense minutes earlier at customs and so said loudly and slowly each item. I got out my towel and mentioned its name – like a teacher – and demonstrated drying myself. Then I got our my tooth brush and brushed, my book and I read … trying to delay the search of my valuables – a Nikon SLR D80 with expensive lenses, Sony video camera, lightweight powerful laptop with extra hard drives, MP3 player, etc, etc … I got out my toilet paper – “here’s my toilet paper, this is for wiping my butt” – and held it high and started to wipe my arse – and they cracked up! That was it, I could pack my pack, and out … they asked my nationality and were pleased to meet me – although I’m sure they knew nothing of where I was from. Even the mention of Australia washed over them – but no more search. No money paid; nothing lost.

The next stage was much easier: but no vehicles were going from this deserted border post to the next deserted border post. There was only one other traveler. A guy from a Guinea, as the others in our shared taxi had raced off into a waiting friend’s 4WD, and that left us with 10 seats to fill; just 2 people and not a person or vehicle coming within hours to complete the journey and so I offered to pay the bulk of the distance: 45 km = over 1 hour of rutted track to get us to the next village and there next shared taxi probably awaiting passengers – as maybe you don’t know: but taxis, cars, buses in Africa don’t leave until full: there is never a timetable for departure – just when a vehicle is full, which by my previous experiences of Africa can mean mercifully just 30 minutes or even less but usually up to several hours waiting … so I paid nearly-the-complete taxi fare which, in this case was nothing – $10, but often it can be too much, as in 10 x $10 +/-. 

When we arrived at the Guinean border – about 1 km away – I hopped over the wire that stops traffic – like there’s any – and the soldier go shitty, didn’t understand what he was saying but realized I had to go around the now limp wire down on the dirt – Not over it, like I was walking on the flag or something! Got to the Immigration shack where lines of tired Africans were waiting and was stamped immediately, without fuss. Wow.  Thank you. Then as our taxi was rearing on – the Customs guy on the other side was calling to the driver to stop – but he could not hear – as we were walking on to the next post – I also ignored him while urging the local with me to stop shouting to the driver to stop … and so we cleared Customs by ignoring them.

Truck on the road in the mountains of Fouta Djalon, Guinea

The next soldier post was gentle. And that was it, across more broken mud tracks – too easy, with seats to ourselves – for an hour towards the town of Saréboido.  And then it was back to cramming – should have paid a few bucks extra to avoid this but … got in the back – as in 3 people crammed in over the rear wheel for another hour of banging heads, crammed legs room, scarping shins.

And so I arrived in Guinea, in the sleepy town of my chosen stay in Koundara, found a “hotel” and gotten laid within minutes of arrival, had endured hours of cramped spaces over rough roads, had defused greedy soldiers and gotten drinking with deluded others to realize that indeed it was a lucky day; a relatively easy journey.

(PS: in Part 2: Leaving Guinea to Sierra Leone was just as crazy – soldiers, bribes and bad roads abound.)

Drugged, abducted, robbed & ditched in RUSSIA

Everyone around the tables was friendly. I remember having 3 shots with them and that’s it … until I remember stumbling and falling from weakness on gravel somewhere in the countryside amid early morning sunlight. Didn’t know where the fuck I was but it certainly wasn’t in the city. It dawned on me that I had been drugged, robbed, abducted and ditched on a road in the countryside.

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A cold beer never felt so freeing – Cartagena, COLOMBIA

A cold beer never felt so freeing; only two hours ago I was busted for grass and sweating it in a Colombian police station …

So there I was finishing photographing the huge Spanish-colonial San Felipe fortress from the old city walls of Caribbean Cartagena shortly as dusk collided with the rushing traffic and three teenagers smoking pot on the riverside walls, having left this scene as a dodgy dude approached me and decided to give him the berth before I lost my entire camera bag when a cop on a motorbike sees me, slows, turns and is suddenly searching me and then a flash from fuckin’ last night.

Hooker and that small but obvious stash and papers in my Marlboro box  and after my left pocket searched the gear is found. He grins or was it a growl, I dunno cos I knew I was in the shit having carried it around all day having forgotten all about it. BUSTED.

For a few minutes I tried to reason with him that I had fuck-all dope but he kept insisting I get on the back of his motorbike and go to the station and after he threatened to handcuff me on the street, traffic and bunged up buses slowing for the spectacle, I agreed to go for a ride.

I remember my unsmiling resigned expression mirrored on astonished locals watching as we whizzed down alleys avoiding the rush hour. 

At the small station it was all go as he showed another officer his catch, his small haul equal to a joint or so. They searched my camera bag thoroughly, taking interest my condoms and quizzing the crystal silica bags and I knew it was getting bad cos I had two expensive Sony digital cameras for them to play with, ponder, plunder; one guy wanted-to know how it worked and away he was outside with the video camera and I was seriously wondering how insurance would respond to the claim of busted for drugs, both cameras stolen by the cops.

But seriously the searched me extensively for more gear and were pretty shitty but when they couldn’t find any more they still talked about 5 days jail and that was a relief; thought it would be longer.

They asked for my passport and they were amused when I didn’t even have a copy (it’s illegal here not to carry ID) which I wasn’t carrying but they they seemed to warm to me when I showed them some of my tourist history books of their city and when they found out I was from Nueva Zealandia I felt hope at paying my way out trouble but with such expensive cameras on me I had no way of pleading poverty.

Yet my poor Spanish really helped me faint incomprehension but the word PROHIBITO is very clear. I agreed, Si Si.

They asked, how much I paid for it and where it was bought and I had to tell them a pro had bought for us and that it was only a small packet for around 5000 pesos – less than $2.

The other cop returned from outside my camera for me and I knew things would improve as they found no more gear and the measley amount wasn’t worth their time.

He asked if I wanted libertadade for a price. I emptied my pocket of local cash expecting to be stripped of everything before official processing began and to my surprise he handed back my dope and I left the station complete with cameras but minus about $US 15 in local pesos. 

I guess my friendliness, the tiny amount, maybe simply their money making activities saw my release … I thanked him and gave him the nice one / everything’s okay Brazilian thumbs up gesture and with a sense of life again and a bewildered smile I walked stunned by my escape, down the street.

I smoked that menacing, forgotten joint back in the guesthouse courtyard and now, reflect … never has a cold beer felt so freeing.

> photos of Cartagena & Colombia

Head off the edge #2 – Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA

What jumping out of a plane didn’t achieve for me, jumping out of a moving car in Buenos Aires has … checked back into reality: maybe I’ll stay a while.

It started as a quiet beer on Saturday night with Murray (a Scotsman I’d met in Bolivia 3 months ago) but into the evening someone notified us that it was officially the first day of Spring and hence a huge party would consume the city all night.

He was right: 4 am and people pumping in the street, even homeless folks wasted in happy huddles. From the pub I progressed to The Big One – not talking penis size but BsAs biggest discotheque to see the UK DJ collective: The Ministry of Sound. Crowds from teenagers to transsexuals, business looks to punk. An din this 3 storied-cathedral I E-ed my way across the morning til the finish at 10 am to then taxi across BA to an after-hours (BA has numerous after hours clubs, open 10 am – 10 pm).

Drunk beer on a comfortable couch upon a sunny rooftop glasshouse of the club that Sunday, amid stark-eyed smiley clubbers and everyone, it seemed, was snorting coke or smoking grass or drinking; or all three.

I met an English-speaking Argentine of Syrian decent – we talked of my experiences there in ‘89 – and his friend, a big guy – looked Samoan -  from somewhere I forget in the Pacific. They were loaded with stuff, which they shared, and I returned their generosity by buying them rounds of beer.

Over the hours, tons of people joined our sofa area, including a – seemingly, small time – mafia boss, and a pock-marked, dark shades, sinister hitman-looking guy. (Both guys looked like shady movie roles). And over the hours many men and woman came over and paid their respects, check-kissing this boss, and introductions to them for me, them dudes asking which woman I wanted, I declined and was happy to just get wasted, for the moment. But substance offers were accepted across the afternoon.

I happily offered to keep buying beers, big bottles shared out among a growing crowd around me. Strange mix of middle-age cool dudes, old surfers, oldish sluts, young skins and techno teens. People came and went as did the hours because next I remember being in an underground club located in an old mansion. Must have gotten there with the two shady types but don’t remember how … got talking with a range of people including this nice chick who wanted me to return home with her and her boyfriend for a threesome. I agreed. 

We left the club together but so did those two shady guys but now also with a large skinhead.

So there we were waiting in the deserted street for a taxi. Six of us. I asked what was going on and they said maybe something to the effect of sharing the taxi home, dunno exactly.

After about 10 minutes we got a taxi but the driver was only willing to take 5 passengers. Two taxis would have been the obvious solution. But no, it left empty, and I don’t know what was said but the boyfriend, coerced, I suspect, left for the club and I got very suspicious and now, somewhat bored and concerned with these thuggish characters. I’d decided (around 1.30 am) it had been time to leave back in the club when I gave the boss money to buy beer and he didn’t return (equal to about $US 20) the change; when challenged he said that he’d returned it.

Now a police car passed and I flagged it down, and the chick followed me across to the car, and speaking in English she asked what the fuck I was doing. (Most Argentineans don’t trust the cops here, who had been linked to various kidnappings and other crimes in BA since the economic crisis hit last December.) I said it was to protect her; I didn’t trust the potential of a rape. Her reasoning convinced me to back away from the cops, that she didn’t seem worried. The cops took off and the guys now looked at me. What you do that for, the boss asked. I apologized, by dismissing it, “Sometimes I get crazy …”; “cops often give you a ride in NZ”.

So another taxi came and we all got in. I made sure that I was beside the door, with the chick to my right. Not sure if I had said that I want to get out or stop or what.

But my intuition set off the final alarm bell so I opened the door as we drove down a deserted main street, around 2 am. The chick grabbed the door, the bald bouncer also, and locked to the lock. “What you doing; are you crazy? I thought you were intelligent …” she said.

Can’t remember answer or how soon before I next reacted but I think seconds as we turned – hence slowed, into another deserted main street. My light said: GO. Everything so fast. I whacked the big guys arms away from the lock, somehow opened the door and leaped from the moving car to land running and wobbling but somehow still upright.

How’s it possible – upright. Stood stunned, wow, what happened, staring at the taxi stopped about 40m ahead with its red rear lights staring back at me … then it drove off … I don’t know how I landed unscathed or how I got the nerve but just reacted – there was no thought beyond OUT NOW. I remember saying as I exited: “Bye Bye. Fuck you!”

Less than 24 hours later and I’m still trying to recall the exact patterns of thoughts and movements but they are lost to the speed of things. It wasn’t a dream. Be easy to explain if it was … But seems like it. Rushing with crazy, confused adrenaline I couldn’t believe what had happened as I sat in another cab heading into the downtown for some comfort in a club girl.

I was so fuckin’ hyped; shocked; disbelieving. What with no sleep for 40 hours, taken Es, and an ongoing menu of dope, drink and coke, no food, you could say that I had an active imagination; but then amid the haze came that gut clarity that said, Danger, GO. 

It ended with whisky and a lovely, dark-haired Peruvian woman, 23. She was wonderful fun, and very beautiful. We shared loud, simultaneous orgasms across Monday morning. 

Now, Tuesday: woken from a deep sleep and have changed down a gear or two as I wonder which direction is next … after weeks in BsAs am bored by the clubs, cocaine, and sex-for-money chicks … need a new hit – for a few weeks, anyway.

This latest misadventure has encouraged me to Hit the Road –  time for some fresh air, time to travel again, maybe a back-to-nature trip; cos cities can make people crazy …

10 days in sleaze street – Addis Ababa, ETHIOPIA

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Fake police or corrupt cops – Nairobi, KENYA

Outside a church disassembling its Sunday mass a self-declared “Christian” approached me. He wanted to talk life. I thought okay, what-the-hell. He asked many questions as he led me to a quiet, outdoor cafe. There he told me his story.

He, a Rwandan who’d trekked across mountains to escape the tribal massacres, was on a Kenyan transit visa and needed to get to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, where he’d an uncle at the university who could help him. He asked me for money – $40 – so he could continue his journey, and I was replying no, sorry, when two men approached our table. One guy in a suit; the other dressed casual. Neither smiling.

They flashed ID – SECURITY / POLICE !

I thought – What-the-fuck? The bulky, casually-dressed dude took the Christian away as the other smaller, suited guy declared that the guy had been arrested. That he was a wanted terrorist! I thought this some kinda bad joke. And scoffed. The officer got shitty. He demanded to see my passport. I told him it was back at the hotel. He started asking questions: What was our business? What had we talked about? How did I know this man? He got aggressive; threatening me to take this situation seriously, to co-operate. 

The big man returned. They said they’d been watching us with binoculars from that tall circular tower – Nairobi’s landmark. They accused me of supplying him with false traveller’s cheques, then of giving him drugs. I started to shit myself: corrupt cops who wanna frame me for anything that pays.
 
The small, shrewd copper told me of the marijuana penalties. I replied I didn’t smoke. ”Not even cigarettes?!” demanded the other. ”No.” They inspected my hands. No stains. I couldn’t fathom whether they were convincing con men or corrupt cops.

And was that “Christian” part of it? They told me to stop lying, threatening – “Do you want to talk here or at the station.”  I replied “Here”; knowing that if these guys were cops it’d be very
difficult / very expensive getting released from a station, especially if they began the paperwork. I continued being polite, patient but firm.

Maybe I can get rid of them with a small bribe?

They insisted I show my traveller’s cheques, to compare mine with the suspects. If they didn’t match, then I was clear. I didn’t trust them. And was reluctant to reveal my hidden moneybelt (luckily, I’d left my visible moneybelt with my passport back in the hotel). I didn’t budge. I was to be charged.
 
They asked how I felt about spending time in a cell.

As they escorted me across the park another man appeared. The boss. I went through my story again. He too demanded to see my traveller’s cheques. A car was now waiting. I knew if I got in the car – or was forced, I was in for some serious trouble whether these guys were cops or con men. I then decided to show them my stash, and with their permission I walked alittle way off and out of their view I pulled a $20 cheque from my hidden moneybelt. I reckoned I could handle losing 20 bucks. I showed them the Amex cheque, a distinctively Australasian issue because it had – Westpac Bank – printed across it in red. This I pointed out: that the suspect couldn’t possibly have the same issue. It stumped them.

They wanted a couple of bucks – for beer, then said I was free to go.

During that hour I remained uncertain of their real identity. It seemed likely they were con men yet, as corrupt cops they fitted that ruthless stereotype typical of Hollywood movies depicting the Third World. Either possibility seemed plausible …

                                                         *

PS: a clipping from a Kenyan paper I came across while there: The Daily Nation: letters to the editor: POLICE MARRED HAPPY TOUR

[I and a fellow Kenyan recently toured Tanzania for five days ... as might be expected, we bought a few things, including three t-shirts, five cloth materials, a food mixer and a souvenir. We set off for Nairobi ... our luggage and papers were checked at the border and okayed by immigration officials. We then boarded a matatu (taxi-van) for Nairobi. We got to a road block in Kajiado and were asked to open our bags - only my friend and I. The police found in our bags the items earlier mentioned and asked us to produce "permits" for them, which, of course, we did not have. They asked the driver to leave us behind but he instead pleaded with them to have mercy on us. The police said they would consider it if my friend and I bribed them with Sh500 each. My friend and I were scared ... the police finally conceded a Sh100 discount and accepted Sh400 from each of us. The second nightmare came just after Maasai Girl's School, where we found another road block. The same process followed and bags were turned upside down again. Two policemen took Sh300 from us ...]

> photos of Nairobi & Kenya

Across the badlands of Baluchistan – PAKISTAN

He’d just locked the keys inside his truck. What a plonker! And what a hopeless position: parked as it was in front of the gate – which the guard had just unlocked and now the truck totally blocked the access point between Iran and Pakistan … cornered near Afghanistan. A high fence defined the frontier, mesh and barbed-wire running out and into the barren hills and cramped against the wire were Afghani refugees living in a dusty, iron-sheet, canvas and timber squalor.   

Razor ridges on the road from the Iranian border into Baluchistan

The German had offered me a lift. But now, with his truck stuck, I was sure I would be catching the train to Quetta. (The capital of Baluchistan: the vast desert region of western Pakistan. Baluchistan is a rugged, arid land bordered by Iran in the west, Afghanistan to the north, the Arabian Sea in the south and the greener Sind province of Pakistan in the east.) I’d rushed to make the once-a-week train; I didn’t fancy waiting for the next departure. Or one of the old, agonising and infrequent buses which left the border.

I strolled through the gate and into Pakistan – the truck still blocking it. Other vehicles couldn’t pass. Fortunately, there were none waiting this early in the morning. I greeted the Pakistani police. They were friendly, smiling, asking questions as they shaded on the veranda of the customs hut.

Surrounded by dark-skinned police, in black uniforms and black berets (with red insigna), I felt elated to have reached the Subcontinent. Historically, I’d now entered India. But politically Hindustan, or land of the Hindus, was still 1500 km east. For the last two days dark-skinned people had been prevalent in Iran as I’d neared Pakistan. In Kerman, I’d given a woman – begging with her child – 1000 rials. However, this brought another woman with child, screeching and shrieking at my feet. These women made me wonder about the immense poverty I would encounter in India: What would I do when everyone wanted money? 

Now, stamped into Pakistan, I wandered back into the glaring sunlight. And no sooner had I, when the money changers rushed me–shouting and arguing for my attention.

“Change! Change!” “Dollar. You ‘ave dollar?” “Iran rial, I change.” “Good rate, I give best.”  “No mista, do not listen to this man – “  ” – How much, you say?” “I give more!”

I changed the last of my rials for Pakistani rupees. Meanwhile the truck remained stuck in Iran, inches from Pakistan. Still the German cursed. Confused Iranian guards ran round with wire and other objects that might open the door. The German pulled at the rubber lining the window. I offered my Swiss army knife. And suggested: Smash the window with a rock. But he wouldn’t hear of it. Eventually he stripped the rubber, opened the small triangular window, then pushed his arm through and unlocked the door. The borderguards were impressed – and I suspect, a little relieved to have the gate clear as other vehicles had arrived.

Dry flood plains of Baluchistan

I had a lift, again. We drove past the immigration shack to the custom’s building round the corner and stopped. Inside, they inspected my pack briefly. Then with our passports checked and stamped again, the official followed us back the to truck.

During the next hour customs checked the truck’s contents with the descriptions on the carnet, while scores of dust-coated cars (Ex-Kuwait like I’d seen at the Turkish/ Iranian border) arrived. A Mercedes 180 came strapped onto the roof of an old bus!

Returning guest-workers and their families waited for clearance. Customs took awhile. Killing time, doing essentials, young adults and children gathered with jerry cans and plastic bottles on the soaked soil round the water pump. One guy washed dust and grime from his arms, face and feet. Another scrubbed his sandals; others cleaned windscreens, checked tyres, ate and relaxed before the drive across the desert. A happy vibe bounced around the vehicle park. It said: We’re relieved to have nearly reached home.

I watched the activity while the customs man inspected the truck. First, everything inside the rear living-unit. One stove. Two fridges. Three spare wheels. A second engine, tool box … And then inside the cab.

The flat-nosed Mercedes freight truck had a green cab and the rear was dark-blue, with a flower painted and circling a lone plastic porthole. A black panther – like those kitsch 70s bedroom posters, sparkling eyes, mouth open and stalking – gazed from above the cab’s roof.

The driver, Kris, said he’d painted both pictures. He was a solid guy who tended to waddle, rather than walk; being top-heavy, like a body builder who’d neglected his lower half; his muscles were obvious in his faded black singlet. He looked like someone I’d met before: shaggy brown hair touching the his lower neck, blue eyes, sharp nose, whiskery face and moustache.

Kris said the first 160 km of road was a trail of tyre-grooved dust. Old tracks, piled stones and the skeletons of buses kept us on route. Otherwise, it was the perfect place to get lost. Imagine a flat and empty landscape halved into two colours: dust-grey sand and stones – like rough sandpaper and pale-blue sky.

Driving this desolate stretch heading east, we crossed paths with six Baluchi’s going north. One man rode, while the others led laden camels–sacks and blankets. We stopped. They stopped. We smiled, shook hands and exchanged greetings. “Salaam akeikum” – ‘Peace be upon you.’  “Wa aleikum asalaam”, they replied.  ‘And peace be upon
you.’ Beaming in the eyes of both parties: the surpise of having encountered each another. Here two worlds collided. Them with Allah’s time-tested transport and us, with our recent man-made machine.

These men wore traditional garments – of a style perhaps unchanged since man’s creation? The bearded chief resembled a biblical prophet. He dressed in clean white robes and in turban with flowing tail. He held a sturdy wooden staff. The rest wore knee-length mostly grey–shirts and baggy trousers, with round-flat caps or loose turbans. Only Allah knows where their leader led them, so much space, so much sky.

Men of the desert

Speeding across the blank expanse our truck sent dust whirling. But the trail wasn’t good, and more often the pace was slow. Many ruts and holes. Kris had driven this route before and this was now his fourth time. And his last. He said, “I’m sick of it. Too much hassle and it is too lonely. When I saw you, I was very glad to see another foreigner–zat is why I ask if you want the ride.”

I asked Kris about the hassles involved with driving from Germany to Nepal. And he replied, “The police always stop me in Iran. Zey see a European truck and zey search for a long time and are always wanting things. I am sick of zis…” 

In Germany Kris (a mechanic) and friends brought old trucks, loading them with second hand appliances and setting them up as campers – to avoid custom’s restrictions. Later they sold the lot in Kathmandu. But it had been Kris who’d done all the travelling.

“Once,” he said, “a friend took the truck across Turkey but when he reached the Iran border, zey turn him back. So I had to fly from Germany to drive the truck for him.” “Did he have a visa?”  “Yes. He had a visa from the embassy in Germany.” “Why was he turned back then?”  “Zey gave no reason. But there was a diplomatic problem at the time between Germany and Iran, maybe zis was the reason. It did not matter anyhow, zey let me in. But I think it was because I had been to Iran before…”

Parking off the road for the night, we later slept. By mid-morning we’d reached the asphalt. It was pocked with holes. The slow and bumpy road stretched before us, weaving as the landscape became rugged.

It was weird, startling, even spooky. A rock-strewn plain patched by scrub and yellowish weeds. And breaking this mustard-and-grey carpet were mountains; rocky, razored and near-vertical from their base, forming in a series of serrated ridges, curling the land like dragons. The road passed between two spikes and beyond the nearest ridges, the distant peaks were misted in a blue-grey haze.

Later, in a panorama of gravel and barren sand-swamped hills, we stopped alongside two camels chomping on green thorny bush. Watching over them were two boys. One about ten and the other in his early-teens, both dressed in dejembas (knee-length shirt; with loose trousers). Kris gave them some stickers, demonstrating what they were by peeling one and fastening it to the windscreen. They invited us for chai, pointing to a mud-and-stone flat-roofed house nestled beside a hill. Kris declined.

The boys who liked their stickers

The landscape was silence and the road empty. But we did encounter the odd Kuwaiti car or Pakistani truck. The trucks were gypsy caravans on modern chassises. Some had cabins built of wood with ornate panels and tassles around the windscreen and doors. Heavily-decorated and brightly-painted Allah praises, murals and motifs ran around the high wagon-like cargo bins. Fairy lights, metallic stickers and chains clung from bumpers and tailboards. Signs were painted on the back of each truck: “Please use horn”. And like some warning, they thundered past us – we never overtook them. Their drivers drove fast and crazy. After several battles, it was always us who pulled over to let them pass. We stopped either for trucks or to stretch, or to refill our waterbottles from the rear tank.
   
Driving into Dalbandin around dusk, we halted for chai. At the tea stall we met a teacher. He showed us to a basic restaurant. They served mutton curry with rice – or the reality, sticky bits with spicey soup and bones. Anyway, it seemed like a meal after two days of biscuits. Before leaving I visited the outhouse, where I flicked a lighter to see where I was stepping. Of course, the long-drop reeked something horrible but at least turds didn’t cover the dirt. Around the pit, hundreds of cockroaches – 2 inches long – scuttled for cover as I squatted.

Before we departed Dalbandin the teacher reappeared with a lump of charas (hash). After two hours we turned off the road, careful not to park where the sand was too soft. Then without papers, Kris carefully loosened and emptied a cigarette, mixing tobacco with pinches of charas before repacking the cylinder.

Now lying in our sleeping bags on the truck’s roof – excessible by a skylight – we smoked, gazing at the stars.

Silence, except my walkman playing softly … But alarmingly half-way through the first smoke we thought we heard someone shouting. Looking down, we saw an armed soldier walking around the truck. He asked what we were doing? We told him: Just parked for the night. He said okay, and bid us good night.

And not until the morning did we realize in this total emptiness that there was a police post just across the road! It had been invisible last night.

Kris had checked the ground but still we managed to get stuck in the sand as we left that next morning. The rear wheels spun and dug in. He revved-hard and we wound deeper. After scooping sand from the tyres and placing some wood beneath the rubber, we tried again. We jolted forward. The small plank snapped. Sand sunk around the axel. Kris told me he’d nearly lost a truck in the sand before – it seemed we were to repeat the lesson.

Truck stuck ! (Kris on far-right)

It was looking ugly … Fortunately, a man from the station offered help. Within minutes we had seven men armed with a spade and two lengths of wood. They dug us out. Free; we thanked them. Kris gave out Western cigarettes and matches (which he carried to give as gifts).

For hours the road coiled across rugged hills as we began climbing towards Quetta. Mountains of rock devoid of trees. As we twisted towards the top of another range of boulders, tussock grass amid reefs of jagged rock – the corner ahead came into view. A crashed bus. It lay on its side on the slope, having punched through the stone wall flanking the road. Surprisingly it had stuck – not tumbled into the gorge.

The road wound hills and later followed a river, through steep cliffs of layered wave-thrashed rock. Pebbles and reeds lined the river. But further, the water dried-up as we drove alongside a wide floodplain dotted by shrubs; red-brown and green blotches reaching to rounded, gentle hills a mile off. T

Throughout the journey the scenery was desolate and barren. Stunning landscapes. But nature aside, the only sights were rail bridges and tracks occasionally following the road. At times the line burrowed into cliffs, travelling through tunnels built by the British early this century, and bove the entrances small stone forts (with crenellated walls and turrets like a Medieval castle). A hint of the troubled times had by the Brits in this wild corner of Empire.

Trucks rumbling beyond an old British railway fort

In Nushki (I think it was this place as it is only one of three towns on route to Quetta) we saw green trees and lush vegetation amid rundown brick and shanty buildings. Shoe-box-sized stalls and sack-and-timber shelters were crammed infront of old brick houses – looking half-finished or falling apart with paint fading and fragile timber lean-tos and awnings tacked on; rugs and clothes hanging from roofs and wires. Nuskhi was drying out. I think we’d missed a downpour. The roadside was muddy and swamped by large puddles, forming temporary lakes around houses, shops and cigarette stalls, causing donkeys and carts to circle round.

And when we stopped at a stall a crowd of 40-50 gathered. Males of all ages came to watch the foreigners and admire the truck. Men and boys. Some wore turbans. But most had round-flat caps with a wedge cut in the front, embroidered with motifs, flowers and studded with tiny mirrors.

The crowd …

After travelling 620 km – three days – across Baluchistan we entered Quetta that afternoon … The main street was thick with cars, trucks, packed buses, swerving bicycles, diesel-coughing rickshaws. The hustle and bustle like a photo I’d already pictured, like a scene I’d already visualised, and now finally India seemed within my reach …

> more photos of Baluchistan & Pakistan

Insane first day – IRAQ, 1989

Extract from story - Hitching to Baghdad:

A cloudless sky overlaps the receding morning grey. On the streets of Rutbah the potholes are puddles and asphalt glossy as I stroll in a dream state: absorbing the very first impressions of my first day in Iraq.

Before Rutbah: hitching the desert across Jordan and Iraq on a gasoline tanker, 1989

I, am, away with it. Still tired. And I don’t even notice the Nissan pick-up slow up beside me. But I soon accept a lift; he speaks no English but lets me out 400 metres later – in the slow centre of town.

I sip sweet black tea outside a basic café and dwell – so this is Iraq, it’s okay – yeah, quiet, people seem friendly, and super-curious for sure. Across from me rows of flat-roofed, sun-bleached, bland concrete buildings border the dusty asphalt mainstreet. Many have a half-completed look, with bricks and rusting steel exposed, awaiting an optimistic additional storey. A few people are out and about but it’s not busy. Shops display modern clothing, Adidas bags and other goods hanging from pinned-back steel doors, where wooden crates and heaped sacks clutter their entrances.

Basically a scene not worth writing about but to bring it alive suddenly – a man balancing a tray of tiny glasses on his fingertips says “You are welcome to Iraq. Most welcome!” “Thank you. It’s good to be here.” And I ask him how much I owe him. “No. This okay, no money.” “No money? Free?” “Yes free for you. You like more?” He replaces my empty glass with another fresh glass of tea then darts between tables, serving others while still shouting out questions at me: Which country you from? Your name is? You are tourist, yes? Where you go after here? How long you stay Iraq, friend?

During this tea talk a hell-of-a-noise emerges from down the mainstreet to be loads of schoolchildren marching and chanting. Three boys lead the crowd holding Saddam portraits. Followed by two lads with a large-scripted Arabic banner. Two girls in camouflage frocks carrying colorful bouquets. Two boys troop flags. The Iraqi national flag flutters limply in the light breeze as columns of school boys – flanked by unsmiling teachers – follow on mass. I see two lads giggle and jostle – to get scolded by a serious man.

I ask the guy standing beside me “What’s this for?” Another man replies “Holy-day” Well, it wasn’t Ramadan (the Muslim holy month), that I did know. I asked him again “A holiday for what?” “Our president, Saddam.” Really? Weird way to spend a holiday.

But I’m intrigued so I follow the parade – since I’m heading out of town to hitch, anyway. On traffic island a huge mural of Saddam’s head and shoulders – in military uniform and shades – dominates the passing kids. Several children call to me and I take their photo.

Pro-Saddam march by school kids in Rutbah, 1989

Soon the parade merges with adults gathered in a parched park shaded by Eucalyptus trees. There on a stage are wreaths of color, more presidential portraits, more Iraqi flags. In fact the entire stage is a parcel of Iraqi tri-colours – of red, white with green stars and black ribbons wrapping everything and everybody, adding an authorative splash of official color to the drab-suited dignitaries seated by the speaker’s podium.

Raspy, amplified Arabic shrieks over the crowd to reach across the street to where I stand watching; not wanting to be intrusive I purposely keep a distance because already I’ve been the reason for too many bewildered stares.

I’m crouched down rewinding my film, about to put a new one in the camera when I gaze up to see many faces staring and pointing over at me? At me !!!

A wildfire ignites before my eyes as Arabs whisper to one another as the murmuring spreads to crackling as more faces turn to stare at me.

The speaker is losing his audience – his words no longer of interest as 100s of Arabs now stare at me. Fuck. Shit. Feeling uncomfortable I leave but before a half-metre a guy in suit-and-tie is beside me, identifying himself as “Security.”

I forget about the million stares on me as he glares down and barks “You have no right to be here! No photos allowed! Why are you here?” “I’m a tourist.” “You have visa?” “Yeah.” “You have permission for camera?” “Whose permission?” “You must have a letter from from the Foreign Ministry in Baghdad” “But I haven’t reached Baghdad yet!”

He thrust his hand forward – “Give your film to me!” “No! I’m not losing my photos of Jordan.” And shoving my camera into my bag I walk away raving madly. “I’m a tourist! I’m a tourist! Tourists carry cameras!” To my surprise he leaves me alone.

The incident makes me uneasy. Time to leave town – quick.

I decide against hitching further and instead backtrack to the bus station where I join three Iraqis in a shared taxi to Ramadi …

In the backstreets of Baghdad, 1989

> travel photos of IRAQ ‘89

Police questioning – Idgir, TURKEY

It’s dark, 10pm and the hotelier panics at my arrival … so there I am: in a shabby police station to register my presence in Idgir, eastern Turkey near the Iranian border, these two brutish cops – grim like snagged fish – staring at me, as one of them looks over my passport.

MRP @ age 23, Nemrut Dagi, TURKEY, 1989

Glancing up at his colleague, he shows the other cop my photo. They talk. Then come questions. Nationality? Name? Age? Purpose of visit? Occupation? As one writes my responses into their register suddenly the other officer interrupts: “You are hippie or heavy metal?”

What?! I have long hair, leather jacket, flower-embroidered shirt, cut-off jeans, Doc Marten boots, but judging by the way he glares, he disapproves, that they both disapprove of the way I look. I answer hastily, joking but polite: “Neither, I’m a psychedelic groover.”

The term throws them. (Even surprise myself with such a ridiculous response; where did that come from?) But as it happens the answer renews their interest. “What is this?” He pauses. “Psssychee-dell-it?” I invent a definition – avoiding drug and freak connotations.

Satisfied, he returns my passport and replies “Okay, it’s good you not hippie!”  

> photos of Turkey