If you’re looking to travel somewhere a little bit different, why not consider our Nairobi to Cairo 8 week Nile Trans trip departing Nairobi on June 5th. I did this trip last year as the final leg of 42 weeks in Africa, and I can honestly say it was my favourite bit! The initial 3 weeks in Kenya, Uganda and Rwanda are the epitome of Africa – laden with tribal villages, raging rivers, bountiful national parks, and majestic mountain gorillas. Activities are plentiful, and encompass history, adrenaline, wildlife and plenty of fun.

Ethiopia
Heading north, Ethiopia is the most wondrous place to visit, and is full of striking scenery, enchanting history, scrumptious cuisine and affable locals – nothing at all like the images of Ethiopia I grew up watching on TV in the 80’s. Cheerful children greet you in the street, playful and eager to flaunt their limited English. The tucker is tasty, unique and super cheap. And the history lessons abound, wherever you go! This year we have amended our route, so not only will you have the chance to visit the stone churches of Lalibela, ruins in Axum, monasteries on Lake Tana, castles in Gondar, the Blue Nile Falls and the Simien Mountains, but you also have the chance to explore the markets of Jinka, visit the Omo Valley and catch a glimpse of the lip plate tribes.

Sudan
Further north Sudan is surprising – men clad in white flowing jalabiyas jostle in bustling city streets, ornate mosques glisten in third world villages and magnificent pyramids rest peacefully in a tranquil desert. The Arabian influence appears, the tourists disappear, and what you experience tickles all your senses – it’s really quite a treat!

Egypt
And as for Egypt, well I’m sure you’ve already conjured images of pyramids, temples, sailing feluccas on the Nile, and tales of a time long ago. Let me tell you it’s everything you imagine and more! And following a rocky few years on the international radar, the tourists are far and few, so you’ll get fantastic views of all the incredible sites on offer!

This trip is a camping based overland adventure, with all transport on our custom built big yellow truck! It’s rough at times, camping in the dust and desert on ‘the road less travelled’, but it really is a fantastic adventure, so for those of you interested in the worlds lesser known journeys, you will love this one!  Find out more about this trip!  If you have any questions about this trip, just email me or give me a call on 01963 363400.

Kristy (Princess) from Oasis HQ

It’s been a while but Cade has sent us a flurry of new blogs from the Trans Africa expedition.  Here he describes (in his unique style!) a typical day on the road….

The prefix `trans` derives from the Latin word to mean ‘through.’ When I think of the action of going through something, my mind immediately casts back to memories of puberty and pane-glass windows. The truth is that despite the fact that I was forewarned before the onset of puberty and to a lesser extent the pane glass window, in both cases I still never really knew what to expect. To this day their gruelling and painful memories send shivers up my spine and serve as a reminder that any term wielding the ‘trans’ prefix immediately implies a high level of endurance and a large element of surprise.

True to its name, the Trans Africa expedition is proving to be no exception to the rule. Our daily dosage of surprise come as a result of more twists and turns than the London A-Z, while our endurance is tested by the fact we go through about as many countries as we do cheap plastic flip-flops. So much so that in order to best convey the extent to which the elements of surprise and endurance are evident, it is best to take a step back and rather than looking at the puzzle as a whole, focus on a single piece or a single day.

To select and explain a day that truly captures the mood, essence and scale of the entire adventure is an option I briefly considered before swiftly filing it in the ‘too hard’ basket. So I selected a day that was simply a good enough laugh, opened my laptop and began spilling my verbal diarrhoea over the keyboard. This is my account of day 88:

The fire crackled and popped under the kettles. The pots and pans clanged in the kitchen and right on cue, Dan`s laughter bellowed after he’d heard what I assumed was himself telling another of his old jokes. Some of the group wake up to the sun, some wake up to their bowels and others simply sleep through the static. For the past three months it is the combination of these three sounds that have come to serve as my daily alarm.

The familiar foul stench of my sweat-soaked pillow crawled up my lip and tickled my nostrils. I hauled myself out of bed, donned my filthy four-day old shorts and made my way to the fire to hear the next of a long line of Dan`s self-proclaimed ‘belters.’ The tone of my skin was now uniform to the tone of the earth. My flip-flops were mismatched, my coffee was tasteless and my body odour surrounded me like the awkward silence after an inappropriate comment. It was just another day at the office.

First on my agenda as with any other day was to remember where exactly we were. This is a task that seems relatively simple in theory, but when your lifestyle has you passing as many villages as you do worms, is much more difficult in practice. In this instance we were surrounded by tractors and farming equipment on a commune in Benin. Where exactly this commune was, I couldn’t tell you until such time as my coffee properly kicked in, but what I could tell you for now was that we were two days into a five night bush camp stretch beginning in a town called Ouidah in Benin, and finishing in the Nigerian capital of Abuja. After a quick yet thorough calculation I soon concluded that we were currently located somewhere between the two.

With that done, next on the agenda was for me to work out where exactly we were going. Luckily on this morning I was not the one to be doing so. Nicola, a worker at the commune had invited us to his village for the morning so was to take my place in the navigational hot-seat in the cab and guide us the way.

While much of our time during drive days are spent with our noses in books or waving to village children, I’d have to say that the majority of our days are actually spent getting on each other’s nerves and pushing each other to the brink of insanity. With wit and sarcasm as our tools, we toil away profusely for the sole benefit of our own amusement and to simply pass the time. This brings me to my third task on my all-important agenda; to annoy the shit out of Gareth. And I figured that if I was to bring my most irritating A-game, It would have to be a two-coffee morning. So I poured myself another cup another cup and pondered my attack.

Nicola informed the group that we were to be visiting the voodoo King of his village and if we were to be fortunate, he would grant us an audience. In the West African nation of Benin, Voodoo remains the state religion and is an integral part of the countries culture so it was no surprise that whilst in Benin, we were to learn a little about this culture. Seeing as we rate ourselves so highly, nor was it a surprise that sooner or later we were to be greeted by royalty. He would have our group in his home, speak to us via an interpreter, answer all our questions and bless us in prayer before sending us on our way.

I’d have to say that the element of surprise came when having promised us to take us directly to the home of the king, the truck ground to a halt at a pineapple plantation on the outskirts of the village.

See, for 88 days now, trying to convince Gareth that pineapples grow from the ground has been as progressive and painful as pulling teeth. For 88 days Gareth has insisted that the existence of pine trees combined with the fact that apples grow on trees, is conclusive proof that pineapples grow in trees. So after having a quick word to Nicola, he was more than willing to provide Gareth with the closure he needed and arranged a small and spontaneous pineapple plantation tour. While the tour had our mouths yawning wide open catching flies, Gareth was forced to stand front and centre with undivided attention.

Gareth returned to the truck thankful but assured us that he’d be confirming the validity of our ‘pineapple plantation theory’ on Google at the next opportunity all the same. And with that, the great pineapple debate of 2013 was put on yet another temporary hiatus and we were back in the truck on the way to the Nigerian border.

Going through an African border is generally long and painful and is sets a scene for the element of endurance. The problem with crossing by land is that you essentially have two immigration points to contend with, an exit and an entry. While generally the officials on exit are happy to see the back of you and the officials on entry are looking for any excuse to keep you from coming in, this means that the exit is usually swift while the entry is tedious. Officials however, don’t always adhere to these guidelines.

I leapt out of the cab on arrival to the border and within a matter of minutes the Benin immigration had our passports stamped and sitting in a pile in the middle of the desk. But before I could say lickety-split, the officials proceeded to demand on completion that I pay a ‘processing fee’ which in-turn instigated an old fashioned stand-off. Our passports sat on the middle of the desk like the net on a tennis court while the immigration officials and I rallied our respective arguments back and forth over the top of them. After a short period of time a lot of banter, I seized a break in play to lift the pile of passports from underneath the ransom they were being held, tucked them under my arm and made my escape.

Our arrival into Nigerian immigration down the road, it was evident that the officials couldn’t be more welcoming. While our passports were processed at a snail’s pace, the officials welcomed us to set up camp on the Nigerian immigration grounds where they were insistent we were to spend the night as their guests. So we set up our tents, started our fire and immediately made ourselves at home.

Due to the fact that there are no official money changers in Nigeria and banks will not change foreign currencies into Nigerian Naira, if you wish to obtain local currency in Nigeria it is necessary to do so illegally on the black market. On asking for their assistance in the matter, the immigration officers wasted no time in calling their contact in the nearby village. Half an hour later their contact arrived and proceeded to exchange our money illegally on the black market, but insisted on doing so in the security of the immigration grounds. And with that, we knew we welcomed to colourfully contradictory world of Nigeria.

While the sun sank over the nearby town, I cracked another beer and took my seat by the fire. The glowing embers softly lit the darkness, the empty beer bottles clanged as they hit the pile, and the laughter of the immigration officer bellowed as Dan’s old jokes were received well by the new audience.

While I have to say that as sure as it had started as just another regular day in the office, day 88 actually just finished as just another day in the office. From royalty to ransoms, the unpredictability that I have come to predict from each day was as powerful as the stench seeping through the pores of my skin. While under any normal circumstances the day would be classified as memorable, the truth is that it faced the same fate as any other day on the Trans Africa trip: To be tossed back onto the pile where it will be lost among the compounded mound of memories and misadventures.

I went to bed that night with the knowledge that while I have no idea what else this trans trip would send me through, what I did know was the fire would once again crackle, the pots would once again clang and Dan’s old morning jokes would have his laughter echoing through the villages. While there was little else I could be sure of, I knew two things. My alarm was set for yet another day at the office and despite all the short and curly’s, puberty ain’t got shit on Africa!

Here we have the second installment (it’s a long one – sit down with a cuppa) from Cade, Tour Leader on our Trans Africa Expedition.  Anyone who may have to or has had to, apply for a visa should read it!

Episode II – A Necessary Inconvenience

Getting visas in order to gain entry into West African countries and getting the runs are both considered a necessary inconvenience for all Trans Africa expeditions.  In fact, getting them both in Morocco in the first two weeks of the trip is quite literally a means of getting all your sh** out of the way before you are able to transcend the continent with greater assurance.  The visas are obtained in embassies that range in condition from Ritz to rubble, while the officials very fluid concept of officialism results in the visa application process being a very long and often painful exercise of persistence and patience.  So it was in Rabat where we were to spend nine days applying for visas for Mauritania, Guinea and Ivory Coast.

On an average every-day suburban side-street in Rabat potholes litter both roads and footpaths. Alley-cats lounge on parked cars, stray dogs scrounge through bins and plastic pieces of rubbish skip and dance in the breeze. There are no numbering of residences, few sign posts and the odd pedestrian. However, there is one side-street in Rabat that is considered quite unique.  Although this particular side-street does sport all the aforementioned qualities, along this particular side-street is a wall that stretches for a block and at a midway point along this wall is the one quality in particular that sets this particular side-street apart from all the rest; a rarely-spotted metal door.

The street itself is so unassuming that to the naked or uninformed eye, the significance of this rarely-spotted metal door would easily slip under the radar.  In fact, for one to clearly identify the significance of this metal door, there are two ways to do so.

The first way is by the large, angry mob of a hundred and fifty men that constantly surround it. The mob spills out onto the road and spends it’s time arguing, fighting and bustling internally for prime position in front of the door.  Actually, very similar scenes can be found around our campfire each morning where the twenty four of us bustle each other out of the way for prime toasting positions. Though both scenes serve as a boiling point for explosive violence, the only real differences are the sheer number of people and the fact that the focal point is not a campfire, but rather a rarely spotted metal door.  It is for this reason that just like our campfire, the door can be classified as “rarely-spotted.”

The second way to clearly identify the significance of the door is by the small sign next to it that simply reads “Mauritanian Embassy.”

Although everybody’s favourite door does have opening times displayed next to it, it also does seem to be temperamental in that the door only really opens when the door only really wants.  On our arrival we had been informed that on previous days, the door had simply chosen not to open itself at all. For as long as the door chooses to remain closed, the mob surge and slap their way to the front in the event they might be first in line when it does choose to open.

In order to join the mob you are first given a small, ripped piece of paper with a hand-written number on it. The idea is that you wait within the mob for three days for your number to be called and when it is, you have to beat the forty other people who have cleverly scribbled your number on a piece of paper and are now vying for your hard-earned position. Once you eventually do enter and pass through the door, you then find yourself in a small, dark room about the size of a cupboard where a man is sitting behind cracked glass. You give him this man your most treasured travel documents as fast as possible along with your money and you leave before he has a chance to throw them back at you. You then return to the door the following day to see if your application has been successful.

People are seldom seen emerging from behind the metal door, surging through the ocean of chaos with smiles slapped across their faces and wielding their passport victoriously above their head like an Olympic torch, visa page wide open. But more commonly they are seen slowly emerging from the raucous dragging their bottom lip to the edge of the mob, taking another number and restarting the long wait.  There are two options really; see, you can either put yourself through this long and tedious ordeal or you can simply be a woman.

Despite women being treated as secondary citizens in many West African communities, it seems to be quite the opposite with regards to the Mauritanian Embassy. Here the women are given top priority and called in first. There are so few of them that instead of waiting for three days, they are made to wait a mere fifteen minutes. But getting your foot in the big metal door doesn’t mean a thing as we found out when Marianne entered armed with our twenty four passports and was simply told to take the passports and come back the following day.  In this instance, all our collars and Colgate smiles were immediately rendered as useless as the numbers the men held in their hands.

Seeing as there is no longer a campsite in central Rabat, we were forced to bush camp in a nearby forest each night for the duration of our ordeal.  Each morning we would wake up and don our close-toed shoes, jeans and a collared shirt – not generally appropriate overlanding attire but very much so for the visiting of embassies. We would commute into town with the morning traffic, spend the day at the embassies and when business hours were over, we’d commute back out to the bush camp we called our home each afternoon.

This meant that while we thought we’d left the rat race behind to explore the African continent, the ironic reality was that within two weeks of the trip we’d found ourselves immediately thrust back in to the nine to five world, and a very real sense routine.  It also meant that by the time we’d obtained our Mauritanian and Guinea visas and walked into the Ivory Coast Embassy, our skin had a dirt-bronze tan, our facial hair was now holding the rest of our faces to ransom and we were discovering that there are only so many odours one can conceal with a whole can of deodorant.

In contrast to the Mauritanian embassy, the Ivory Coast embassy is like walking into a serene slice of paradise. For starters, rather than a metal door, there is simply an open doorway with a welcoming mat. There is a quiet, serene ambiance interrupted only by the overwhelming welcoming greetings from staff and their excited cheers at the prospect of granting visas for tourists to visit their country.  There is a comfortable waiting area with a floor so pristine you can eat off it.  The diplomat gives his personal mobile phone number for you to keep in contact with him and when the visa processing time appears to take longer than expected, is more than happy to open the embassy on a Saturday.  What is most appealing especially to those who have spent the last week bush camping, is their clean and functioning toilet.

The visa process is surprisingly highly technological as they have now switched to biometric visas which means finger scanning and photos are taken and sent to the main office in Abudjan before visas are granted.  However despite this, it is still the use of a single index finger that is enlisted by the diplomat to manually input all application forms into the system.  When this painfully slow process seems to take longer than expected, he opts not to enlist the help of his other remaining nine digits, but rather uses his index finger to dial a friend who confirms via telephone that he is to arrive in five minutes. Typically by “five minutes” he actually means the following morning.

Unlike the Mauritanian visas which resemble used beer coasters slapped on blank pages in passports, the Ivory Coast visa comes complete with a colour photo, bar-code and colour holograms. Rather than slapping them in, they are carefully cut and glued in individually by the hard working diplomat over a period of four hours. The only issue comes with the fact that they are actually stickers that can be simply peeled and pressed in a matter of minutes.

As a result of the bush camping over our extended stay in Rabat, our only showers came in the form of a can. Our shoes had become a simple a means of concealing our muddy feet while our jeans and shirts simply served to hide the layers of forest dirt that had been caked onto our skin each day.  Similar to the rings of a tree that when counted are able to determine its age, on receiving our third and final visa, these layers of dirt were counted and determined that our ordeal tallied nine nights.

It was all cheers and smiles on leaving Rabat and hitting the open African road. The only grumbles that came from the group were that of some of our stomachs. Despite our victory in the visa department and despite having left behind a hefty minefield deposit around our forest bush camp near Rabat, our bowels were reminding us that we still had some work to do with regards to our other “necessary inconvenience”.

Read Cade’s Episode I of the Trans Africa Expedition