A Painful Beginning (Chapter 1 - France)

A few hours later we were spinning along, smelling agreeably of Gauloises and garlic, with a friendly blue sky roofing the straight avenue of poplars. Ahead lay Reims, the German border and half the world beyond.

The beginning of the first lap, My mind reached ahead to un­known lands east of the Yugoslav mountains and, as I conjectured, a sensation of butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Nita, living for the moment, was humming 'April in Paris'. An old man straight­ened himself and waved to us from the middle of some furrows. A horn-blasting maniac in a decrepit old Citroen nearly put us in the ditch. (1 would have to remember to keep to the right.) A Bentley whispered past, with GB plate and full complement of passengers, and I experienced a moment of envy.

After a while a neat concrete sign heralded Reims-Centre Ville.


We stopped only briefly to replenish our usual French diet of pate and those crunchy, delicious loaves which we English seem unable to produce, then on again through the gentle country of eastern France. It was all very pleasant and normal, and as yet almost impossible to realize that we were not just enjoying an annual holiday -a jaunt which would end within the prescribed fortnight. I patted my pocket containing the passport crammed with strangely written visas, in order to convince myself that we were, indeed, mounted on this tiny vehicle, heading for the Northern Territory and the filming of those descendants of Stone Age Man, the aborigines.

'Aborigines! My God, they're awful people. Dirty, more animal than human. They stink foully and have the morals of alley-cats. I'm sure you'll find them utterly distasteful.' The memory re­turned of our young, ash-blonde Australian visitor, fitting her cigarette into a long holder and puffing vigorously. 'Look, most of you people here in England visualize Australia as a continent of mulga scrub, overrun with blacks and kangaroos, relieved here and there by hard-drinking coarse-voiced swagmen, who fight at the drop of a hat and whose vocabulary doesn't extend beyond "fair dinkum" and" my bloody oath". Why is it that every visitor wants to go poking about among the blacks in the middle of nowhere? There's a whole new world to see if you only thread your way around the coast.'

'Well,' I had said, 'I don't know about the other visitors, but so far as we are concerned you have answered your own question, Miss Australia. I've seen enough of the modern world for a while, and I can think of nothing more refreshing than a prolonged stay among the world's most primitive people, where I can study men hunting for food and not for wealth-or even more unwholesome gain.'

I swerved to avoid an extra large pot-hole. Dear, decadent, adult France. It was exhilarating to be back once more on her soil, the stepping-off place of our previous adventure-the one that had so nearly ended in disaster, and yet had aroused in me an insatiable desire to 'see over the next horizon'.

The idea of our present expedition was formed when the pre­vious one had ended. And now, here we were, putting the plan into action. It has been said that mistakes do not exist-they are the portals of discovery. . . .

The seeds of the Australian venture were first planted in the pressurized cabin of our homing aircraft in 1953, fifteen thousand feet above the Sahara. Anyway, Nita, who was wearing her usual airborne expression at the time-a somewhat' determined-to-die­ dignified' look-turned from her restricted view of the night and vague contours of the desert far below and said, with undue emphasis: 'Heights are for fools and mountain goats. The next time you get itchy feet, please restrict the transport to wheels or water. Wings, so far as I'm concerned, are definitely out.'

...Next time? At that moment the next time was something about which I could only dream. West Africa had fallen farther behind and the aircraft had thrust hungrily across the desert wastes, con­suming in minutes what had taken us days, even weeks, of heart­breaking toil to achieve. I had felt a certain resentment at the time towards the sacrilegious way in which man telescoped such majestic and endless wilderness. What did those air travellers around us know of that real magic below? I felt they knew nothing: surrendering themselves briefly to the care of a metal con­trivance, to be transported from one continent to another within a night. A brief flirt with the stars, and that was that.

I, too, did not like flying. The other passengers had begun to settle for sleep, fidgeting and easing themselves into more comfortable positions. The hostess made one more nursemaid tour; individual lamps began to snick off. Besides me, Nita huddled under a blanket, rolling herself into a tight ball to escape from the cold in the oblivion of sleep.

I remembered lighting another cigarette arid my gaze had wan­dered from the dimly lit fuselage to the velvet, starlit night. I was unaccountably melancholy. Our Saharan adventures were over. What would be next? Well, those Nigerians had been a wonder­ fully interesting race; not the mission-trained mimics of the whites, but Hausa tribesmen with their historic traditions, simple dignity, and superb bushcraft, who had given our hunting party, out from Kana, such a tremendous welcome at the village of Birnin Barko. These tribesmen had turned the whole community inside out under the guidance of the headman to make our stay as happy and entertaining as they humanly could. For myself, it was good and fruitful to spend time among such primitive people. Deep physical and mental satisfaction was to be found living in those elemental surroundings.

So at some time in the future we would go again among the 'savages'. It was with such memories running through my head that I had thought eventually about the Australian aborigines. What makes men go out into the void spaces of the earth? Perhaps from an increasingly complex world men go out to gaze in won­derment upon simplicity.

'It's nearly six o'clock. Don't you think we had better start look­ing for a camping spot?' I was jerked from my reverie into the present and the immediate problem of those who would camp on the Continent, France in particular-the finding of a suitable spot. And this time we had no intention of adding about forty miles to our intended daily total by cruising along slowly at dusk, scrutinizing the landscape and mumbling, 'No, that's no good ­too marshy,' or 'Hell, no, we'd never get across that ditch.' This time we were not in a car with a sump especially designed to bury itself in those deceptive folds in the ground. If we were to see an attractive, beckoning copse, nestling against a sheltered hill­side, then that is where we would camp, even if we had to lift.our transport over and through the natural and man-made barriers.

And by six o'clock on that first afternoon, we were both look­ing in earnest for our first open-air bedroom. For the truth was that we could stand no more. After five minutes of scanning the landscape right and left we turned off the road down a rutted cart track and through a five-barred gate into a field of close­ cropped grass. It wasn't much, but it was home, at least for a night.

Oh, the sheer delight of dismounting and stamping around to ease the burning, aching areas of flesh. Surely we would get ac­climatized after a few days. 'We can't possibly reach Australia if we don't,' moaned Nita, striking a pose like an advertisement for a sciatica cure. 'Oh! My back.' She said it for the two of us. I turned my head slowly, with much pain, and looked at the scooter with distaste. I could only see it, at that moment, as a mobile instrument of torture. 'You horrible little thing,' I grated. As I spoke, the prop-stand sank slowly into the soft grass and the machine tilted slowly off balance and fell on its side.

We rushed to pick it up and Nita gave me a reproachful glance. 'It objects to being maligned. After all, it can't choose its owners, and if we had spent a few months adapting ourselves to scooter­ing - as I suggested - we would not be in this state now. Ouch!' That sounded like the gambit of a good row, so I muttered some­thing about' everything being better in a few days', and suggested that we should make some tea. For my wife these are always then magic words of solace and so, with much anguished whimpering, we unpacked.

Even our sad physical state could do little to detract from my pleasure at our first evening on the road. There was the gay little orange two-man tent, complete with matching fly-sheet and, in­side, the two wonderfully warm swansdown-filled sleeping-bags; tough, ultra-lightweight equipment which the manufacturers had confidently and generously presented to us. 'That equipment,' they had said, 'will stand up to anything.' At that time we had no conception how right they were. Looking at our canvas home and the bedding within, it was incredible to think that only a few minutes previously the whole lot had been contained in one small roll in a neat waterproof bag on top of our other baggage. Next, we unpacked the off-side pannier-bag and assembled our faithful old folding stove and the rest of the culinary equipment. And while I humped the big valise which held our precious cameras, films, paperwork, and spare clothing to the back of the tent to act as our pillow, Nita rummaged through the other pannier for some­thing to appease our sharp appetites. I kindled a fire, just to make things cosy, and strolled off with my rifle to see if there were any myxo-free rabbits or a pigeon in the vicinity. There weren't, but walking ironed out some of the creases and I returned to the camp empty-handed but supremely content.

Down there at the bottom of the slope lay the tent and the scooter, and in the flickering firelight my wife preparing a meal. Beyond this scene were the fields and the purple countryside of France, all of which we had to ourselves. And to the right of me, that thin black ribbon of tarmac periodically revealed by the brief amber headlights of a passing truck or fast-travelling car; the ribbon we would follow-almost without a break-to the very tip of Ceylon. People may be gregarious, comfort- and security ­loving, but for me nothing could compare with this life - with all its demands - on the move, away from cities, where one never knew who, or what, was round the next bend in the road. The anticipation excited, as it always does, and filled me with happiness. I burst into a tuneless song as I strode down again to the camp.

'Mind where you're pointing that thing! I hope it isn't loaded.' Nita has always been wary of firearms, ever since the time in the desert when she accidentally blew a hole through the roof of our vehicle and deafened herself for a week.

'No, it's not loaded and I didn't see a thing, but nevertheless I'm on top of the world.'

'Well, please come down again long enough to put some more wood on the fire - I can hardly see.' It was evident that my wife did not share my joyful mood, but she usually adapts herself slowly to a nomadic life and then, if anything, is more enthusiastic than I. She was probably brooding over her lost domesticity. I went off to find some more wood.

By the time we had eaten, the aches and pains of the day had largely subsided and, as the air began to chill, we crawled into the tent and snuggled into our sleeping-bags. It was the best place from which to hold a post-mortem of our first day in the field.

'Well, so far so good. We left home early this morning and here we are in one piece and running smoothly on the right side of Reims. The scooter has behaved perfectly and tomorrow I'll put a little more air in the front tyre, just to improve the steering a bit. But apart from that we don't need to modify anything. The gear is riding securely and nothing seems to be loosening; and our bodies will get used to long periods in the saddle.' Here I had to shift my hip from a particularly sharp lump that protruded through the ground-sheet. 'We're going to find this trip a piece of cake, don't you think so, darling?' There was no answer.

I withdrew my gaze from the embers of the fire which glowed through the open flap and looked at Nita; sound asleep. My watch read exactly seven p.m.

Within a few minutes my own eyes felt like lead and refused to stay open any longer. As I stretched out beside my wife, a drowsy brain registered a last somnolent thought. 'We're com­pletely drugged with fresh air.' As indeed we were.

Even so, it was impossible for me to lie in blissful, unbroken sleep until daylight, for the first night with the ground for a mat­tress is always an ordeal; and when one is on the threshold of a journey through virtually unknown country, sleep becomes an elusive luxury. The strange ungiving hardness beneath and an active imagination, sharpened by unfamiliar darkness, produces an unsettled state of mind that pictures innumerable pitfalls along the way ahead.

Unknown country. Well, here in central Europe we were all right. Good roads, regular tourist traffic, even Yugoslavia a reason­ably known quantity. But what of beyond? Even the A.A. had been vague about conditions in Bulgaria, for instance. But they had advised us to keep our cine-camera out of sight, and not to fail to report to the British Embassy in Sofia-just in case we should vanish!

And the other enigma-Afghanistan. There were some queer looks when that cropped up. 'Be careful, old chap. They're a bit hot-blooded, you know. My brother was up in the North-West Frontier just before the war. There's no one to help you much until you reach Kabul, and as that is more or less right on the Pakistan frontier, you're very much on your own for practically the whole distance from west to east.'

Well, why go through Bulgaria-or Afghanistan for that matter? There was an alternative route, via Greece to avoid Bulgaria and across the lower, recognized route overland through southern Persia to Quetta, thus by-passing Afghanistan. But that persistent little imp curiosity kept drawing me away from the known towards the unknown. I wanted to acquaint myself with Communism, for instance, on its home ground. And Afghanistan held the fascination of a country which, like Tibet, holds the mysterious title of Forbidden Land. The formalities in getting visas were certainly forbidding; they included personal applications and sheaves of questionnaires to complete. So it seemed that there were these two stretches to be negotiated warily, as well as Northern Turkey, the deserts of Persia, and the entire length of the Indian continent, all to be tackled on a heavily-laden vehicle with eight­-inch-diameter wheels and a 1.5-horsepower engine; and all this before we even reached Australia. Impossible. . . . Here we were, at the end of the first day, aching in every joint and we hadn't yet been off tarmac. How were we going to feel after a day on the rugged dirt tracks which, by all accounts, would start in Yugo­slavia?

The wind, eddying across the moonlit countryside, caught play­ fully at the fly-sheet, simulating the sound of a prowler. Just first­ night nerves. It was no good, I couldn't sleep. A smoke at three a.m., however, is always soothing. . . .

Yet, for all the fearful speculations, I would not have changed places with anyone. This was the essence of living, and in years to come I would remember July the 4th, 1956. All that this date would mean to my safely-housed ex-colleagues, whom I momen­tarily envied, was perhaps American Independence Day.

The ensuing days and nights along the roads of France were an admirable test for the inevitable rough stuff to follow. We dis­covered that our fuel range was two hundred and eighty miles, including the two-gallon reserve can which stood between my feet; this meant that over rough country we could rely on some­thing like two hundred miles between refills.

We also adopted a modified driving technique. I began to realize after the second day that I was not in fact driving, but riding, and the introduction of regular half-hourly breaks helped us to cover the mileage far more agreeably. Nita would tap me firmly, when I would immediately pull over and stop, steady the machine and wait for the groan as she leaned heavily on my shoulder and gingerly dismounted. As many motorists will know, stopping on command requires an almost superhuman effort, and wives never realize the reluctance with which their menfolk re­linquish the controls. However, with this new system the groans were briefer and certainly less vehement. As the miles mounted, our stiffness lessened and the commanding taps grew less urgent. This was as well, for later we had frequently to cover a hundred miles without stopping. To do this on a motor-scooter calls for practice, stoicism, and muscle development here there normally isn't much muscle.