Vintage cars – The Cape Record

Chapter 28 – More Difficulties

February 11, 2025August 4, 2025 clairepatriciaLeave a comment

We were called at 5 and at 6.15 we left Kapiri M’poshi, with pleasant memories of a comfortable jolly little hotel. We were in good spirits and felt very fit. At last, the poisoning caused by the mixture of artemisinin and the drug I had taken at Nairobi seemed to have been expelled from my system and for the first time I felt something like my own old self. The sun shining in a cloudless sky may have had something to do with our improved spirits: anyway, we felt thoroughly cheerful as our good Wolseley sailed over the excellent road towards the South. Our host had told us that the road was good as far as Broken Hill but had warned us to be careful of a dangerous bridge which lay in wait round a corner at the end of a long straight. But he had not specified exactly how far this bridge was from Kapiri M’poshi, so that each time the road curved we slowed down cautiously. We crossed several bridges over streams and at last concluded that me must have meant one of these, though we had not seen any particular danger in any of them. The rain of the day before seemed to have bound the road surface into a solid hard surface and we were sailing gaily along at about 50 miles an hour when the road took a gentle left-hand curve. As the road straightened, we saw what was undoubtedly the dangerous bridge before us, and a nasty looking affair it was. The road sloped steeply down to a river and crossed it by a wide plank bridge with no guard rail of any sort, and the road itself was deep in slimy mud, for the sun’s rays had not reached it owing to the shade cast by the forest bounding the road. Humfrey braked and the tail of the car slid round: he released the brakes to straighten the car, but it was obvious that we were travelling far too fast to cross the bridge with any degree of safety. He braked again and made a lovely snap change down to third while the tail of the car was sliding: an instant later he managed to get down to second gear and this helped to steady the wildly skidding car and to slow it down. The bridge was horribly near, and we were by no means facing straight for it as the tail of the car swung from side to side on the slimy treacherous surface. At least, just at the last moment when I was beginning to visualise a real whole-hearted smash, Humfrey got the car under control and we dashed across the wood planks. I had a glimpse of racing water twenty feet below: then we were across and rushing up the opposite slope which was equally slippery. We had no trouble in climbing it because the impetus of our comparatively high speed, probably about 30 mph, carried us some distance up it and the engine was well able to cope with the remainder. When we reached the top, we looked at each other and laughed. I said, “Well done, Humfrey” and he replied “Nasty, wasn’t it?” It was at a more sedate gait that we continued our journey but we ran into Broken Hill without further incident, having taken an hour and 13 minutes for the 39 miles. A lot better then yesterday!

Broken Hill was a delightful surprise. I had heard of it as a mining centre and had conceived in my mind’s eye a composite picture made up, shall we say, of the Rhondde Valley and one of those ghastly mining villages of the worst part of Yorkshire. Instead, we found a pleasant smiling township with wide streets and broad expanses of green grass around which were, sparsely scattered, the fine residences of the local gentry with the delightful airy spaciousness of a country where land is cheap and where buildings do not have to be crammed tightly against each other.

We had decided to breakfast here – we had only had a cup of tea before leaving Kapiri M’poshi – and while breakfasting, to have our car thoroughly greased and checked over. We found an excellent garage and set them to work while we sought the hotel. The large panelled dining-room was pleasant with the early morning sun pouring in through its open windows and as we looked out across the wide park-like meadows in front we felt that fate might hold worse things than being compelled to pass one’s days in Broken Hill. We were shown to a bathroom, to reach which we were conducted out at the back of the hotel where bedrooms were built round a garden of flowers with a fountain playing in the middle. A delightful spot, this hotel at Broken Hill.

We dawdled lazily over a hearty breakfast and Humfrey, having spotted a photographer’s shop, went out to buy a camera as he feared that his own cameras had suffered from the ducking they had received when they had lain under-water for 12 hours. It was for this reason that we brought back so few photographs of the portion of our journey between Juba and Broken Hill. He felt it was a waste of time to take photographs with a camera that was not working properly. He later discovered that his small “Retina” was in perfect order, and we regretted particularly not having any pictorial record of the crossing of those fantastic swamps where the tall grass grew all across the road a foot above the level of the radiator.

We wasted a lot of time at Broken Hill but we were content to laze a few hours in the pleasant sunshine and it was not until 10.13, after a stop of nearly 3 hours, that we set off on the road to Lusaka 91 miles away. The road belied its early promise, so that it was 1.15 when we drove into this growing town. Lusaka is the new capital of Northern Rhodesia. It having been decided to move the seat of government here from Livingstone, as it had been found that this was not sufficiently central. I have no doubt that the new part of Lusaka where the government buildings are and which lies away to the left of the through road is pleasant enough, but the parts that we saw resembled nothing so much as the pictures of early American townships. It was a jumble of corrugated iron and wooden shacks, with broken bottles and old tins forming prominent features of the landscape. We stopped here at a modern-looking garage, which was on our list as being a Morris agency, as we wanted to get a small repair job done. The two rods which stay the radiator cowling to the dash and which had been broken in the crash had been welded at Nairobi. They had now broken again, and this had left the radiator cowling free to work backwards and forwards at the top; so that we found some difficulty in persuading the bonnet to stay in place as it was only held by one broad strap since the fixing clips had been torn away in the crash. Also, these rods annoyed us by rattling on the metal of the dash and we felt that we must try and get them repaired. We found that we had unfortunately arrived at lunch time and the repair shop would not be open again until 2 o’clock. We did not want to waste more time so we contented ourselves with tying rags round the broken ends of the rods to stop them rattling and went on.

Outside Lusaka, we bore to the right and came on a most unpleasantly slippery piece of road. It ran on a sort of causeway above the surrounding marshy land and it was covered with a particularly glutinous and slimy film of mud. I had quite a struggle to keep the car from sliding off the causeway into the fields below. About 5 miles out we came to a definite stop. Across the road ahead was a barrier and a notice “Bridge down. Road closed.” There was also a signpost pointing down a road to the right which said “Chilongabonga” or some such word. We consulted a map and Humfrey said that was all right, that it was on our road though it did not appear in our logbook. So we turned off and slithered along for another 5 miles or so. There were various roads turning off which appeared to lead to farms – indeed we saw a car ahead turn away down one of these. Suddenly, without any warning, our road deteriorated into what I can only describe as a combination of a river bed and a cattle track! It was deep in red mud and ran between high banks of earth. There were no tracks of vehicles on its surface, no marks at all except the hoof marks of cattle. We didn’t like it and as it grew narrower and narrower we liked it even less. It in fact, it was quite plain that something was wrong. This was not a road at all: it was a cattle-path leading to some farm.

There was nothing for it to turn back. It wasn’t easy. The track was very narrow, not much wider than the length of the car and the surface was deep and soft, so that while I moved gingerly backwards and forwards I was in terror lest the wheels should begin to spin and we should get stuck. Gentle manipulation of clutch and throttle managed it at last and I drove slowly back along the slippery road. As the road, which was apparently the one we wanted, was closed for a broken bridge Humfrey decided that the only thing to do was to return to Lusaka, get our broken tie rods repaired and find out if there was any way of circumventing the broken bridge. I hated going back along that slippery causeway, but it was so obviously the wise thing to do that I submitted, though with ill grace.

We found the garage open now, for our little tour down the cattle track and back had occupied about three quarters of an hour. The manager, a keen young fellow, himself undertook to weld new ends on to our broken rods and meanwhile he telephoned to the local civil engineer about the broken bridge. The reply was consoling if annoying. It was “Oh yes, the bridge is broken but a way has been made for a car to get down the bank and ford the stream. No. He was sorry he didn’t know about the “Road closed” notice which was still there. He though it had been taken away. Humfrey and I looked at each other. We wondered what we should have done if we had arrived at this “Bridge Down” notice in the middle of the night when there was no one from whom to make inquiries. It was funny that, that thought should have occurred to us, because in the early hours of the next morning we had that very problem to solve! Rhodesia in the rainy season is a nice motoring country! It is certainly rarely dull!!

It was not until 3.35 pm that we finally got away from Lusaka, the radiator stay-rods having been repaired. It was 2 hours and 20 minutes since we passed through it for the first time on our little excursion along the cattle track and once again, we drove along that slippery causeway which we had come to hate exceedingly. We drove boldly around the “Road Closed” notice on the pass and continued. In a mile or so we came to a stream with its bridge washed away. It was not a serious obstacle. A track had been cut in the bank and we drove down this, forded the stream on a bed of logs laid in the water, climbed up the bank on the other side and regained the road.

It was a pleasant country through which we drove after leaving Lusaka, well-wooded and friendly looking country, and the road wound in gentle curves around the shoulders of little hills. The surface was dry, hard, and not too bad. Perhaps the weather was a trifle too hot for the sun blazed down from a clear blue sky but even overpowering heat was preferable to the ghastly downpour we had driven through the day before. We had no anxieties, though we were disappointed at our slow progress since we left Kapiri M’poshi that morning: we had spent more than 5 hours at Broken Hill and Lusaka and had only covered 130 miles. Nevertheless we were not worried and after our exhausting struggle with bad roads and worse weather the day before I think that our leisurely progress that morning probably did us an enormous amount of good.

The next point in our log was Kafue River, where there was a ferry which, we knew, only ran during daylight hours but we had no anxiety about that. It was still early afternoon when we had left Lusaka and the ferry lay only 37 miles away. Eventually we arrived on the riverbank at 4.52, having averaged exactly 30 miles an hour from Lusaka. There used to be a bridge over the Kafue River some six or eight years before it had been carried away by unusually heavy floods and since then the crossing has been carried out by a native ferry. It has not been thought worth while in view of the paucity of through traffic, to rebuild the bridge. It only took 16 minutes to cross the river, a fairly considerable tributary of the great Zambezi, and I only remember it because of the intense heat that surged up in great waves around us while the car was stationary. It was bearable while we were on the move and the heat-proofing of the Wolseley double bulkhead system was perfect. Never at any time did we feel any heat or suffer from any fumes from the engine, even though we passed through abnormally high temperatures. Yet one remembers certain cars which are almost undrivable in warm weather even in England because of the appalling heat of the driving compartment. The road remained reasonably good and we made good time to Mazabuka. We had intended to stop here for dinner and to drive straight through the night, for our morale had completely recovered and I personally was feeling quite well again. Humfrey had always been ready for a night drive, with the possible exception of the night at Mbeya after our nerve-shattering journey over the slippery mountain pass. He had, however, realised that I was quite unfit for the fatigue of a night drive and had wisely suggested stopping each night. It had been a sad waste of time but the soundness of his judgment was shown by the fact that, although our days had been fairly strenuous ones, I had now completely recovered. There was a nice looking little hotel at Mazubuka but as it was only 6.35 when we passed it having coveraged 31 miles an hour from Kafue River, and it was not yet dark, we decided to go on. It was only 67 miles to Pemba where we had had reports of a good hotel and if the road remained as good as it had been we should be there soon after 8.30, not too late for a meal of sorts.

We were to meet with a sad disappointment. Less than a mile from Mazabuka we were sliding about on villainous black cotton soil of the very worst type! We agreed that it was probably only a short patch, probably caused by the fact that we appeared to be crossing a swampy track. For five miles or so we skidded violently from side to side as we crawled along over the vile black slime, and if it had not been for our good knobbly tyres I am sure we should have slid bodily off the road altogether. As it was, it was a terribly slow business. Ten miles an hour seemed a racing speed and our visions of dinner at Pemba began to recede into the dim distance. After about five miles we met another car and the driver signalled to us to stop. It was a Ford and we noted that he had chains on his rear wheels. He leaned out of his window and “You can’t get through,” he called. “I’ve been bogged for an hour and have decided to turn back.”

We looked at each other and the same thought was in both our minds. “Thanks very much,” answered Humfrey, “but we’ll go and have a look at it, I think.” We drove on. We were not going to admit defeat without a struggle: we believed that our Wolseley could get through anything with the possible exception of water over the radiator and our friendly adviser had only spoken of being bogged. We went on. The road was no worse and no better than it had been for the last five miles until at last, just after darkness fell, we came to a really bad bit. The black soil seemed to have no bottom and we waltzed and curtsied as the tyres skidded and spun in the bottomless stuff. Two yawning chasms opened before us as we slithered sideways along that detestable road. “A Graveyard” we exclaimed with one breath. With a great effort Humfrey managed to avoid the great holes where our friend had stuck, for under these conditions a car always evinces an insane desire to follow the course of its fore-runners and drive into the holes it has made. We sidled ungracefully past the danger spot and crawled along. We’d got further than he did, anyhow, and we did not relish the prospect of going back. After all, if the worst came to the worst, we had plenty of food in the car, could sleep comfortably in our beds in it, and dig ourselves out in the morning.

We went on and gradually the road improved. It was still dangerously slippery but the danger points were now more in the nature of mud holes than of continuous slime. At last, the road began to rise slightly and as it rose the surface definitely improved. The black cotton soil disappeared and ordinary yellow mud took its place. We began to hope that the worst was passed and that we had left the swamp behind as we climbed onto higher ground.

At nine o’clock we drove into Monze, a small township clustering round a railway station and, to us, a railway station seemed to betoken the end of our journey. No longer for us the wild solitude of French Equatorial Africa or the forest belts of the Congo, but a journey through civilisation, the beginning of the end of our struggles. A railway station seemed so very homelike, stable, and solid.

It was nine o’clock when we reached Monze and it was clear that dinner at Pemba, 23 miles on, was a dream. People go to bed early in these parts and it was hopeless to expect a meal at 10 o’clock at night: 10 o’clock if we were lucky with the road, 11 o’clock if we were not! You see, we had grown humble in our estimate of probable average speeds! Before that stretch of black cotton soil we had reckoned an average of something over 30 miles an hour respectable, now we were contemplating an average of 23 or even half that as a possibility! The reason for this sudden access of humility was quite simple. The 44 miles from Mazabuka to Monze had taken us 2 hours and 25 minutes! 18 miles an hour!

Humfrey said, “We’ll get something to eat here.” “What a hope!” I answered pessimistically. And it certainly seemed as if my pessimism was justified. No hotel at Monze had been mentioned on any of the data I had studied for so many weeks before our departure, and anyway the whole place, a very tiny place by the way, seemed to be dead. Not a light showed.

“Look!” exclaimed Humfrey, triumphantly and pointed to where, in the headlamp beam, the word “Hotel” showed up painted in large letters on the side of a building. It was in pitch darkness. Humfrey got out and went to the door – we always planned to avoid my having to move about more than was absolutely necessary because of my leg. He knocked. Knocked again. He tried the door. It opened and he went inside. “Anybody about?” he called and a woman’s voice answered. “Who’s there?” it said.

Humfrey replied that we wanted something to eat and, for he is never anything but courteous, explained why we were so late with apologies for disturbing her. A woman appeared in a dressing gown. She was a good sort. She was alone now, she said, all the native boys had gone home but she could give us something cold, and she explained that she couldn’t cook for us because the fires were out. We said that anything would do and, after showing us where we could wash, she ushered us into a clean wood-panelled dining room. We ate heartily excellent cold meat and salad for we were hungry. We had eaten nothing for 12 hours. It had been an unsatisfactory day and we seemed to have wasted a lot of time since we left Kapiri M’poshi nearly 15 hours before: yet in spite of all our delays we had covered 258 miles. Livingstone was only 190 miles away and we hoped to be there early in the morning. This would bring our 24 hours’ total to 450 miles and would at least be something knocked off the diminishing number of miles that lay between us and our objective, Cape Town.

Chapter 25 – Iringa – Mbeya 243 miles 16 January 1939

December 13, 2021 clairepatriciaLeave a comment

Next morning we pushed the car across to the garage, dug out the old voltage control from among our spare parts, had the battery put on to be given a quick charge – it was completely flat, as we expected – and returned to the hotel for breakfast.

After breakfast Humfrey went over to the garage, insisting that I should lie on a sofa and do nothing. My leg was very painful, and I still felt very ill. I was very upset because I felt that I was holding Humfrey back, though actually it was the voltage control going wrong that had stopped us the night before. I was conscious that, partly due to the poisoning from the mixture of drugs, and partly to the nerve shock, I was quite unfit, and I was sure that I ought really not to have gone on from Nairobi. I was acutely miserable. Humfrey came back at intervals to tell me how the work was going on and, most characteristically, told me not to be an ass when I hinted at my feelings. He said, “I’m only sorry you aren’t enjoying it.” Not a word about the worry of having a sick whining co-driver, only that he was sorry I wasn’t enjoying it.

At 12 o’clock he came over to say that the work was nearly finished, and he thought we ought to have a quick lunch before we started. The proprietor agreed to give us something at once – we found these British hotel proprietors a very kindly and obliging lot – and at 12.42 we left Iringa. It was a sad waste of nearly a day, but it could not be avoided. Once in the car and underway, I felt better as I usually did. Heavy rain had been falling all night and most of the morning, though it had stopped now. This rain made a precipitous, winding descent immediately outside Iringa doubly dangerous owing to the slippery state of the road. But once down this we found a good sandy road that would have been a fast one if it had not been for the deep sand that made anything like high speed out of the question. We bemoaned our fate that we had not struck this road when it was dry.

The country soon changed and we began to climb again. Up and up wound the road till we reached the summit of 6600 feet. I think that I have forgotten to mention that after we left Nairobi we had re-set the carburettors to compensate for the high altitude and this had made a tremendous difference. The engine was twice as lively as it had been before and had quite regained its old rigour while our petrol consumption which had remained steady at 14½ to 15 mpg. all the way across Africa, immediately improved to 18½, 19 and later to 19½. With our 31 gallon tank, this gave us a range of over 500 miles without re-fueling and we felt much happier, besides enjoying the increased power of the engine. We went on and on through pleasant, wooded country, though the road was so winding and steep that we felt we were getting along very slowly. Our progress was not assisted by meeting several native-driven lorries, these carry on a goods service as a feeder to the German-built railway line running through Dodoma, eastwards to the coast at Dar-Es-Salaam, and westwards to Mwanza on that great inland sea, Lake Victoria. The drivers of these lorries were as utterly reckless as native drivers always appear to be and instilled such terror into us by their method of travelling as fast as they could go round every bend, blind or not, quite regardless of the possible approach of any other traveller from the opposite direction that we became reduced to a pitiful crawl round each corner with frequent blasts on our twin horns to give advice of our presence. Nevertheless, we had averaged over 30 miles an hour when we passed a delightful looking little hotel standing in beautiful wooded country on the banks of the pretty Tchimala River. The hotel was called the Tchimala River Hotel and we wished we could spare the time to stop. If it was half as delightful as its lovely surroundings made it appear, it was a shame that we could not stop there. But time pressed and we were anxious to get as far as possible over the mountains which separated us from Mbeya before darkness fell. We had no idea then of the terrors of that mountain passage and were enjoying the wooded glens and the beautiful hill views as we began to climb steadily into the gathering darkness. As we emerged from the forest line into the bare rock country, darkness began to fall and the road, wet from the heavy rains, began to get exceedingly slippery.

Driving very cautiously on a steep down grade, I rounded a shoulder where the narrow road swerved sharply to the left, with a precipitous and unguarded drop in front, when to my horror I saw about 100 yards ahead, stationary in the middle of the narrow road, a lorry with several men around it. I said to Humfrey “I can’t stop,” to which he replied in a calm conversational tone “You’ll have to.”

I changed down hurriedly but gently – for fear of starting the rear wheels sliding – into third and then into second and with a mere caress of the brakes, for I didn’t like the look of the slimy road and the hideous open precipice on my right, I managed to pull the car up about 10 feet short of the obstacle which was completely blocking the road. “Well done, Bertie,” said Humfrey as we got out to survey the prospect of getting by. The owner of the lorry, a German farmer, said” Ze road is very dangerous. I put on ze chains.” He had calmly stopped in the middle of this narrow road to put chains on his rear wheels!”

We had no intention of putting on chains – we trusted to our good Dunlop tyres. All we thought of was getting past. With Humfrey guiding me from in front, I managed to squeeze by with an inch to spare between the lorry and our Wolseley and not much more on the precipice side. We had no idea that the road was truly as dangerous as the German had said it was, but we were soon to know! Immediately beyond the lorry, the road shelved sharply down to a wide hairpin corner followed by a step ascent. Starting slowly in second, I braked gently to steady the car and immediately the tail slid round. This having been corrected, the car swung the other way, and so in a succession of broadside skids we reached the corner. It felt to me as though the car was travelling at 100 mile an hour and was quite out of control. Actually, I suppose our speed was about 15 or 20 mph and the car was obviously not completely out of control because I managed to slide her in a huge broadside skid, round the corner. Immediately I opened the throttle to pull her straight for a run at the steep climb ahead, she skidded across the road and I had to ease the accelerator. How we got to the top, I don’t know, but it took all the skill I had acquired in years of competition driving at home to get the car up that slope and to control the violent skids that anything more than a mere whiff of throttle produced. At the top I thankfully handed over to Humfrey for we had always agreed that if there was anything particularly difficult to be done, he as the skipper, was the one to do it. Anyway, if this agreement had not been made long before we started, I have no doubt that, as my confidence had been somewhat shaken by the crash at the bridge.

I implored Humfrey to go slowly and he replied, “my dear old chap, I have no intention of doing anything else,” and we crept slowly off along that perilous road. Humfrey handled the car like an angel as we climbed higher into the mountainous, rarely attempting more than about 10 miles an hour and frequently doing much less, while I sat beside him with nerves quivering.

At last, we came to one long ascent that still lives in my memory forever. It was not very steep, probably about 1 in 8, it was quite straight, and the surface was covered with slimy glutinous mud. On Humfrey’s side there was a sort of rocky hillside rising gently while on my side there was a smooth stretch of muddy earth sloping steeply downwards to a precipice edge and through the gloom, I could see the top of lofty trees 1000 feet or more below. Slowly we started to climb and almost at once Humfrey had to get into bottom gear. Then ensued a struggle between a magnificent driver and the vile road that was trying to send us hurtling down over that precipice to certain death. We ascended the hill at about 4 miles an hour, with the car first broadside on in one direction and then the other. The least hard touch on the accelerator pedal would have sent us sliding over the smooth mud and down into the treetops: the slightest insufficiency of throttle opening would have brought us to a stop and would have sent us slipping backwards with locked wheels and out of control, for the brakes could not have held the car on that surface.

It was a wonderful piece of driving and I sat, literally sweating with fear, as we gradually neared the summit. Backwards and forwards swung the tail of the car as we gained a yard at a time and each time Humfrey brought it back, panting with the intense mental strain but at last the summit was gained and he bought the car to rest.

“Bertie,” he said, “we must put on chains. It’s far too dangerous to try and get down the other side without the.” I agreed and got out of the car to find, to my utter astonishment, that I could not stand without holding on to the car for support. Humfrey, though decidedly shaken, was not so utterly unnerved as I was but we both felt the need of a good stiff drink of whisky.

Owing to Humfrey’s broken hand, he could not be of much assistance in fitting the chains, and I viewed with a feeling of considerable helplessness the task of fitting the chains to these 9 inch tyres single-handed, particularly as, even after the whisky, I was still so shaky that I was hardly able to stand. Just as we had spread one of the chains out on the ground and I was about to commence fitting it to the wheel, lights appeared over the crest of the hill and a lorry pulled up facing us. Humfrey went over to it, hoping to get some information from the driver as to the state of the descent and returned in a minute or two with a more cheerful expression. “Look here, Bertie,” he said “I can’t make the native driver understand what I mean, but I’ve had a look at his back wheels. He hasn’t got chains on and his back tyres are absolutely smooth. If he can get up like that, surely, we can get down without chains. What do you say?”

I said I was quite agreeable to try if he liked. I think at that moment, I would have been prepared to face anything rather than the prospect of attempting to fit those colossal chains single handed in the darkness. And of course, as usual, there was sound common sense in what Humfrey said. We replaced the chains in the car and took our seats. Edging past the lorry we started on the descent, noting at the same time, that the driver of the lorry and his mate were getting busy putting chains on their rear wheels. This convinced us that the driver, presumably a local, knew of the dangers ahead and confirmed us in our opinion that we should find the descent less bad than the climb we had accomplished.

Once again, I begged Humfrey to go slowly and he repeated his previous remark, that he had no intention of driving anything else. Slowly we crept down the steep winding road, using second gear all the time to obviate, as far as possible, the necessity for using the brakes. It was now pitch dark and we crawled slowly down, rounding corner after corner, but meeting with no serious difficulty. I was frankly terrified, but Humfrey, as usual, considerate of my unnerved condition continued to creep slowly along. He did not dare to take his eyes from the road, but from time to time he would ask me if I could see anything out of my side window. At first, I could see nothing but a dark cloudy sky, but as we descended, I told him I thought I could see, far below, hills and even trees. There was evidently still a considerable drop on my side. I asked him what the surface felt like and he replied “Quite all right.” We agreed that what would probably happen would be that we should continue to go crawling along over bone dry hard roads on level ground long after we had left the mud and the mountains far behind. Nevertheless, we decided to continue our invariable policy of “Safety first.” Eventually, it was clear from the view out of my window that we were definitely out of the mountains and back in the region of trees and vegetation and in a few miles, we turned off the southward road into the township of Mbeya, lying a mile or so off the direct road. We stopped at the hotel and I got out, still feeling my knees wobble. Humfrey, directed by the hotel proprietor, went off to find the Shell agent and re-fuel while I, after a wash, sat down in the comfortable dining-room to wait for him. I felt very ill and shaky. Soon he returned and showed me the telegram that had been awaiting us from the Shell representative at Salisbury. It read “Nyasaland Trail impassable. Great North Road probably passable with care.” This sounded ominous but it was clear that in face of this advice we should be foolish to attempt the shorter route through Nyasaland and Portuguese East Africa and we must make up our minds to the detour via Broken Hill and Victoria Falls.

When dinner was brought, I took one spoonful of soup and then my stomach revolted. Please don’t think that the soup was bad: it smelt and tasted most appetizing, but I was quite convinced that if I attempted to touch it, I should be sick. So, I sat smoking and sipping a whisky and soda while Humfrey ate a hearty meal and we discussed our plans for the night run. I was miserably conscious that I felt utterly unfit for it, but I was quite determined not to admit it.

After Humfrey had finished his dinner, he left the room rather hurriedly and returned in a few minutes with a serious face. He sat down. “Look here, Bertie,” he said, “I don’t think either of us are up to going on tonight and I booked rooms here. I felt perfectly all right and I feel perfectly all right now, but I have just been sick. I think we should be very unwise to go on. What do you say?”

I admitted then that I was not looking forward to a night journey and shortly afterwards we retired to bed. It was horribly disappointing. Each morning we would start off feeling refreshed and well after a good sleep, but, towards evening, we would both begin to feel that a night drive was undesirable, to say the least of it. I was in a much worse state than Humfrey, but I know that he was feeling the strain; the long, drawn-out strain of continuous travelling coupled with the after-effects of our crash was telling on our reserves of nervous energy more than we had appreciated. We deplored the waste of time, but, under the circumstances, time was not really of such vital importance, as we could not now, after having lost so much time – ten days to be exact – hope to put up the sensationally fast time from England to Cape Town that we had hoped for when we started. The important thing now was to get the car there and the only way to do this was to husband the reserves of energy still left to us.