Since childhood I’d been dreaming I was part of a Camel Trophy adventure, not realising I’d end up being something like a Camel Man on my own for six years. (And a Camel smoker for 23).

I was chasing the dream. I wanted to get to places that few outsiders have seen.
Because I’m car crazy I wanted to drive across Africa in a car, unlike the buses, trains and camels on which Paul Theroux, for instance, relies. For years I survived on Marmite and Black Cat sarmies to save up for my trip.

Eventually, in 2001, my Landy was ready and packed for the adventure. In the end I crisscrossed all of Africa, from Tietiesbaai to Tanzania and from Richard’s Bay to the Dorsland (Thirstland). Across the Ruvuma, and through Die Hel (Gamkaskloof).

I hung out in Malawi for six months, and nearly got thrown into jail for overstaying my visa. I also ended up having a couple of long stays in Damaraland, just because there was nothing apart from me, the Landy, the scent of dust and the typical smell of hot diff oil.

I drove from Luanda to Mombasa, via Cape Town, turned around and drove back to Luanda. Just because.

With the first Ruvuma River crossing I put the Landy on a dhow; the second time there was a real ferry. I found it too civilised and chose to go looking for more adventure inland. There was plenty.

The Landy behaved itself. I didn’t even have a single flat, although I did have to rebuild the gearbox next to the Chobe River in Botswana in the very first week. I had elephants and buffalo grazing around me, and in the distance I could hear hippos cavorting.

For the rest, I didn’t have to do much maintenance beyond topping up the oil from time to time and greasing the drive shaft.

Once I filled up in Kampala. As I drove off, the petrol jockeys shouted at me to stop – something was wrong with the Landy.

There was a dam of oil underneath the car and I crawled under it to investigate. Surprisingly, I found a couple of pieces of gearbox and some broken ball bearings. I had a good look and realised they weren’t Land Rover parts.
So I explained to the guys that everything was OK, because those were neither my parts nor my oil lying there.

But they insisted they had seen the parts fall out when I stopped, and that, coincidentally – and quite fortuitously – they had a brother across the road who could sort out the problem within three hours.

They recommended I while away the time by going to watch a movie at the new shopping centre down the road. I just shook my head, laughed, got in and drove off. It was all part of the adventure …

Did you modify the Landy?
Maybe I’d been having too much Marmite on my toast, because I could afford neither a fridge nor a rooftop tent.

After I had paged through all those enticing 4x4 catalogues I realised that if I were to buy all this “essential” equipment, I’d be overcapitalising hopelessly on the old Landy, and I’d have to go into overdraft to pay for it all. And then I’d have to go back to work to pay it off, and there’d be nothing left for the “Camel Trophy”. I think it’s what they call a dilemma.

Fortunately by that time I had a good idea of which modifications worked on a Land Rover (and which didn’t), because by then I’d been building and breaking Landies for years. I came to the disgruntling (and somewhat humiliating) conclusion that I’d been wasting my time.

I realised that a whole team of engineers with an astronomical budget and years of research were much more effective at vehicle design than I was with my welder and angle grinder on a Saturday afternoon: a standard, unmodified Landy was, after all, the most reliable Landy out there.

What couldn’t you fix?
Along the way, I came across many broken-down vehicles. Lots of them I couldn’t help at all. The biggest problem is that modern vehicles have too many computers controlling everything, so only a specialised mechanic can get them going again. But there was no laptop-wielding Horst, Heiko or Heinz in the middle of the Luangwa Valley.