Tampax for Africa

I graduated from Binghamton University in 1988 with a major in Rhetoric and Literature. After completing my degree, I moved to New York City and began a career in educational publishing.

I am an experienced writer, editor, and project manager and have worked closely with creative teams and a number of corporate and government clients to develop a variety of educational products including, magazines, books, audio cassettes, and videotapes for parents, teachers, and children. I currently work from home. Please contact me to discuss projects.

I live with my husband (yes, the same Andrew) in an old farm house in rural Virginia. In addition to our children, our pets include a yapping dog, two cats, chickens, a guinea fowl, and several thousand bees.

Zaire

My head is spinning. My hands are shaking. I am suffocating. I see black spots. I think I may be going blind.

“Louise! Take a deep breath. You will be fine. Concentrate. I need you NOW. If you can’t do this, ask Scott or Brad to step in. Just breathe. And stop looking down.”

I look at Andrew. Who is this man? Breathe? I’m looking at a bridge. Well, it’s what they call a bridge here in the middle of Zaire. It really is just five rotten trees dropped across a 15-foot gap. That’s just half of the problem. The rest of the problem is the 20-foot drop from the bridge to the swamp below. I need to guide Andrew and our trusty—currently brakeless—Land Rover across this bridge. Oh, sorry, there is another tiny problem: I have what some might call a fear of heights.

I can’t help but look down because when I look off to the side, it’s well, down too. This is not just any “down.” If I give a wrong instruction Andrew and the car could slip, go over, through, whatever, this bridge making the down I’m talking about a goodbye, forever, down. Okay. Focus. I repeat the word ‘focus’ three times. I look at Andrew. I look at the logs immediately in front of the Land Rover. I block everything else out, including the beady eyes of the Bedford travelers. I know they don’t want me to slip up, but they would love to see me step off this bridge and admit my weakness. I will not do it. I focus.

“All right. Andrew you’re going to need a little extra gas to get up onto the bridge. It will feel like you’re driving up over a curb,” I say as I focus on the Land Rover’s front wheels. “But when you get on, stop, immediately. There is a major hole on the right that will catch the wheel.”

I can do this. I can. I can. I can. Andrew steps on the gas and climbs onto the bridge. I feel the logs start to vibrate. I feel my stomach churn. I taste bile. “Okay, now, go to the left just a little. I need to get you around that hole.” Using my hands I motion him forward and to the left. “Stop!” I can hear Andrew pumping the brakes. The car stops about two inches from the edge of the bridge. I suck in a lot of air.

“Andrew. Straighten the wheels but don’t move the car.” I watch. “Now come forward VERY slowly. That’s right. No! Don’t turn right. I meant, ‘that’s good.’” Shit. “Now, keep coming straight for about a foot. Okay. Okay. Stop! Turn the wheels to the right, just a tiny bit. There is a gap between the two logs on the left. Good. Now just keep it straight. Nice and slow. Slow. Slow. Stop! Right a little bit. Little bit more. Straight. You’re nearly at the end. Coming off the bridge will feel like driving over a curb. Like when you got on. If you keep your wheels straight, there shouldn’t be a problem.” I watch as Andrew covers the last nine inches.

Done! I can breathe. Andrew jumps out of the car and hugs me. He is grinning. My knees are wobbly. Andrew steadies me. I want to scream. I want to roar. ‘I did it! I did it! I did it!’ I pushed my fear aside and lead Andrew across that poor excuse of a bridge inch by bloody inch. Deep breath. I did it!

I swear, the moment we’re out of Zaire I’m going to send Jeff a thank you note. Who ever would have thought that I, quiet, hardly-traveled Louise, could go from a predictable desk job to the middle of the Zairian jungle covered in mud, smelling like a monkey, and defying a fear of heights? If it hadn’t been for Jeff asking me to make coffee that one day—a day that feels like a million years ago—I might still be sitting in that office waiting for the next meeting.

Looking back, it really does feel like a lifetime ago.

San Francisco

The day started like any other day: foggy, cold, and generally dreary. The bus is packed and I am smashed between a heavily pierced and tattooed slacker and a five-foot tall Asian woman carrying a live duck upside down in a brown paper bag. I know it is alive because it kicked me. By the time I get to the office, my coat is reeking from the bus—the smell is a cunning mix of cigarettes, soy sauce, and of course, duck. As I toss my fetid jacket over my cubical wall, Jeff walks in, grinning, and pulling at the tiny hairs in his ear. Why does he do that? I’ve watched him in meetings tugging at those little (yet abundant) hairs. Occasionally he’ll actually pull one out, and then he brushes his nose with it. This all has to be subconscious, because if he knew that anyone actually noticed his little flick and flutter he’d be mortified. He’s just that way.

Okay, so Jeff is in my space and is giving me that goofy grin, the one where I know he’s about to ask me to do something I’m not going to like. I brace myself.

“Well, good morning!” oh man, he’s really grinning. I think about sitting down.

“Good morning,” I say, looking at him wearily. He just stares back. “So, how’s everything?”

“It’s great. Just great. Everything is great. I have a potential customer coming in 10 minutes…. do you mind making the coffee and then bringing it in when it’s done?”

I stare at him. My face is blank, I hope. Breathe, Louise. “Coffee? You want me to make and serve coffee?” I’m partially relieved that is all he wants. Last time he came in grinning like this I had to lug fourteen dirty mailbags to the post office. But, I’m also insulted and try not to show it. See, I’m not an assistant—we have one of those, not to mention three healthy interns. Alas, I have no choice, “Gosh, Jeff,” I say, batting my eyes, “I would, but I don’t know how to make it. Show me this time and I’ll make it next time.” Right.

Jeff stops for a moment—uh-oh, am I busted?—smiles and then walks over to the back of the office, where it is even darker than where I sit, and proceeds to show me how to make coffee. What an ass.

To be honest, I’m actually outwardly very nice. In fact, some people think I’m so nice that they take advantage of me. It’s my own fault. I rarely speak up. I never say no. As a result, I’ve done a lot of grunt work and hours in this office that I’m hardly ever thanked for. Of course, I brought the coffee and mugs to the conference room. I didn’t pour though. I have my limits.

The sad reality is, is that I’m not nice. At least I don’t think nice thoughts. For instance, when I had that coffee pot in my hand, I thought about walking into the conference room, tripping, and spilling the coffee all over Jeff. I’m sick of this office, my windowless cubicle, and the people. Life feels like it is slipping away but I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t believe I told Jeff I couldn’t make coffee. Actually, I can’t believe Jeff asked me to make coffee. I must get out of here.

What should I, what can I do? Yes, working for a startup is a great step with many perks. I’ve had my hand in the writing and editing of print, audio, and video—experiences I would never get working for a huge company. The flip side is that I’ve also had to stick hundreds of mailing labels on postcards, learn to make sales calls, and carry dozens of filthy bags to the bulk mail center. And now I know how to make coffee.

What big corporation would provide me with the joyous experience of sitting outside in full sun for six hours while everyone else—interns included!—participated in the videotaping of something I helped write, edit, and cast? None! I know, I should be over it, but I’m not. It’s just such a telling example of how I’ve let people walk all over me. If I had known that I would be left all alone sitting outside I would have A) brought a large book, B) applied sun block, C) brought a chair, and D) not worn white jeans. But no one told me anything. We were all so excited to be taping that my role was clearly overlooked.

So, when Mick told me to sit outside and keep an eye on our equipment, I responded with ‘no problem.’ I thought I would be taking turns with the others. After all, the interns were inside sitting around. I think I even smiled at Mick. But by the second hour, I was antsy. By the third hour, I understood that no one was going to take turns babysitting the gear with me. Sometime around hour four I noticed a huge grease stain on the left side of my jeans. And I was starving, thirsty, and feeling very sour. A little after the fifth hour—when I sat in bird shit—I swore I’d never wear white jeans again. I also swore about a few other things, but no sense getting into all that. By hour six, I had lost all sense of humor and will to live. I was sunburned. My jeans were filthy. And I was totally frustrated because I couldn’t for the life of me remember the words to the Twelve Days of Christmas, even though it was August and I had plenty of time to learn them, if I really wanted to. ‘Just breathe’ became my mantra.

When the taping door flew open, and Flick and Flutter and his sidekick, dick, I mean Mick, stepped out into the bright sun grinning, I was more than sour. In fact, I knew I looked like thunder. Jeff, oblivious of the weather he was flying into, approached, and put his hand on my shoulder. I tensed. Just breathe, I whispered. I really don’t like people touching me. Unfortunately, I work for a very huggy group. Jeff immediately started telling me how great the shoot went. My skin was crawling—and I wasn’t sure if it was just because I felt so prickly or if in addition to the grease, sunburn, and bird shit, I also had picked up fleas and ticks from sitting on the grass. Mick, a tad more intuitive, caught my mood. I stared at them both, asked if the shoot was over, shrugged off Jeff’s hand, said goodbye, and walked away. Just like that. As I stormed off, I heard Jeff say to Mick, “Is that bird poop on her pants?”

And here I sit, two months later—home at last—on our sofa, glass of wine in hand, thinking about what I can do to change. How do I stop being perceived as nice and start being more assertive? Inside I’m standing, stomping my feet, and speaking my mind. Inside I’m Jane, swinging through the trees with Tarzan, hollering, and beating my chest. Outside, I’m smiling (or lately, grumbling) and nodding ‘yes’ when I want to be saying ‘no.’ How do I change? Can I change? Should I change?

I drain my glass of wine. Now fully wallowing in self-pity I hear the apartment door open. Andrew is home.

Andrew and I have been together for four years. We met in New York. His faded Levis drew me to him like, well, grease to white jeans. But I don’t like anyone to know that. We were introduced by a co-worker who sat in the cubicle directly between us. A funny little man who I’m not sure realized he was balding, but to me, a good six-inches taller than him it was obvious. I always wondered if I should tell him. Anyway, I think he may have also been drawn to those Levis. Those jeans really were something special. They were perfectly faded all over and fit Andrew like a glove. There was even a cute little hole in the back left pocket… Back to the story: The moment I shook Andrew’s hand, I knew that we’d end up together. I just knew it. I can’t say it was music and twittering birds, but there was something. An electrical charge maybe? Anyway, since I knew we’d end up together, I did nothing to pursue him. In fact, I was dating The Ass at the time. As the story goes, Andrew left our company and went to work in midtown for another publishing house. Weeks later, he called and asked me out. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history. Well, sort of. Not long after we started dating and dating and dating (honestly, once I got over his snide remarks about the size of my feet, we saw each other nearly every day) his company decided to transfer him to San Francisco.

He broke the news one night over dinner. He was thrilled. He was bubbling over. This was a big career move. For some reason, he didn’t seem to understand that he was currently living in the Center of the Universe. That would make San Francisco Pluto. Why would he want to go all the way out there? It was rumored that people were weird on the left coast. They spent an awful lot of time outside just enjoying themselves. They stopped work at 5 pm so they could go outside. They saved whales. They didn’t read the New York Times. Hell, I bet the Times didn’t even make it out there. The news of his pending move did not thrill me. I was heart broken. What would become of us?

Andrew insisted we could still date—long distance. He’d fly back to The City and I could fly out there. In between visits we’d talk all the time. It did not cross my mind to follow him. I loved my neighborhood. My job was great. I had fresh bagels, delis, and friends nearby. Andrew moved, I took his bigger apartment and not long after I moved in, the magazine I was working for folded. Gone. Ceased to exist. The company took pity on me and moved me to another magazine, with an editor who resembled Frankenstein with PMS 24/7.

My new position was awful. I couldn’t do anything right in the editor’s eyes. She was relentless. She came down on me for absolutely everything even if it wasn’t my fault. My life had gone from wonderful to miserable in less than a month. Naturally, winter hit with full force and I discovered that Andrew’s—my—apartment was freezing. I didn’t own enough blankets to keep warm. I started spending a lot of time on the phone whining to friends. And then one particularly grim day when I was moaning to Andrew during a nightly chat, he invited me to visit. Why, you might wonder, did I not invite myself out sooner? Hmm. That’s not me. Too much of a coward. But when the invite came, my bag was packed and I boarded the first plane I could.

As I sat on that plane, with three magazines and a novel sticking out of my lovely Coach bag, all I could do was worry. In fact, I spent six hours worrying. What if I got off the plane and the spark wasn’t there? What if I took one look at Andrew and wanted to get back on the plane. What if I didn’t fit into his new life? What if I didn’t recognize him? My stomach was in knots. I had shredded six napkins, accidentally crushed my plastic water glass, and snapped a blue pen in half causing ink to spray all over my tray. My seatmates looked concerned but mostly relieved when we landed.

Of course, my worries were all for nothing. I spotted the jeans, I mean, Andrew right out of the gate. We had a fabulous time. I loved the city. I loved the hills, the water, the animals—I saw a herd of elk!—and the flowers that bloomed in the middle of winter. I loved it all so much I wanted in my heart to save the whales! I did not want to go home. I cried all the way to the airport. I cried all the way through the airport. I cried the entire six-hour flight home. (Talk about uneasy seatmates.) I didn’t want to go back to New York. I hated my job. My apartment was freezing. I missed Andrew. I wanted to save a whale.

I was determined though to not make any rash decisions so I waited an excruciatingly long five days before deciding to move west.

My parents and many of my friends thought I was nuts. My mother wanted to know when we were getting married. I didn’t have an answer for her. I wasn’t ready for marriage. I was ready for a change and that’s exactly what I got. My first week in my new city was bliss. Everything was exciting: the buses, the fog, the hills. As I started to meet people though, I started to realize that they were a far cry from New Yorkers. They weren’t as quick, sharp, and well, mean, as they were in New York. They were more focused on what type of bike they had or if the conditions were right for wind surfing. Then there was the issue of my morning bagel. I refuse to go into this because it’s too tiresome not to mention embarrassing thinking about how much ground I covered and how many people I spoke to searching for a real bagel. But once I got past the homesickness and resigned myself to eating toast in the morning, things started to turn around. Andrew and I decided to try living together. We found a huge (by New York standards) apartment with a washer, dryer, dishwasher, and a deck! I found work and had a healthy dose of freelance to keep me seriously busy. Life was good. Until now.

As it turns out, I wasn’t the only one who had a lousy day at work. When I heard the door slam, I could tell that Andrew wasn’t happy. As I poured him a glass of wine and refilled my own, he quickly spills the events of his day. The bottle of wine empty, we head to our favorite Italian restaurant for dinner and a little more whining.

We order the house wine (the large jug), the carpaccio and arugula salad, and the mushroom and squash ravioli. We eat and drink and drink some more. We talk about taking a vacation. A week or two on a beach would clear our heads. Right? Well, maybe not, says Andrew. And then he launches into one of his life-long dreams: traveling across Africa.

Andrew has always wanted to take the long road back to his birthplace, Johannesburg, South Africa. I think about this as I sip my wine and fork the New York-style cheesecake into my mouth. How could we ever pull this off? Take a two- or three-month sabbatical? Would Jeff let me? And then Andrew comes out with it. His plan: We take a year off. We quit our jobs. We put everything in storage and go.

Now things start to pick up. I can see the sun again. I can see that maybe this was what I was looking for: dramatic change. I smile at him. I raise my glass and toast Africa. We pay the bill, weave our way home, and fall asleep.

The next morning we both wake early. We look at each other and wonder if the promises made the night before were for real.

“So last night, that was a pretty good meal wasn’t it?” I’m a coward.

“It was great. I really love carpaccio,” says coward number two.

“Yes, it is good. We drank a bit of wine, didn’t we?” Who would crack first?

“We did, but you know, I don’t feel bad. I’m going to jump into the shower I need to get out of here early, I have a meeting at 8:30.”

“Time for coffee?”

“Sure. Actually, no, I’ll grab it at work.”

“Okay, I’m going to run out for the paper. If I’m not back before you leave, have a good day.” I could not believe our behavior.

“All right, bye,” he kisses me before heading to the shower.

Time stops.

“Andrew?” I am standing in the bathroom doorway, steam circling my head.

“What?” he pokes his head around the shower curtain.

“Were you serious last night? You know, about quitting our jobs and taking a year off to travel Africa?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Bye.”

As my hand touches the apartment doorknob Andrew, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel, shouts my name.

“Louise! What about you? Were you serious?”

“Oh, very. Very serious.” I turn the knob and skip down the block to get the paper.

Work flew by. Maybe it’s because I spent most of the day staring at a small map of Africa. I left at 4:30. I couldn’t take it any longer. The bookstore was calling. I dive into the travel section and am actually surprised to learn that there are a handful of books about traveling across the Dark Continent. With Andrew in the travel business, I am familiar with the Lonely Planet series and the Real Guides. But what catches my eye—and my money—is Africa Overland: The Brandt Travel Guide. This book is all about driving across the continent. It sounds cool. I also grab the Tropical Travelers’ Medical Guidebook and a Lonely Planet just because it’s good to have a couple different references. I arrive home close to 7 pm. The lights are on and Andrew is just opening a bottle of wine. Stacked on the table are three different guidebooks to Africa. All focusing on backpacking.

I unpack my bag. He eyes the Brandt book with suspicion.

“Clearly we’re serious,” I said. “I guess all we need to do now is figure out where exactly we’re going, when we’re leaving, and what we’re bringing. Oh, and what we’ll be driving. I just happen to be thinking about that on my way home and thought mountain bikes or motorcycles might be fun.”

“You’re joking. Neither of us has ever driven a motorcycle and if you think we’re going to bike across a continent you’re nuts. We’re going to backpack. We’ll be able to take local transportation and it will be cheap. Motorcycles. You’re crazy,” says Andrew as he hands me a glass of wine.

“I’m not crazy and I’m not backpacking. I can’t stand backpackers. They’re always so dirty and think they’re so much better than everyone else. We’re talking greasy hair, unshaven legs, and bad breath. Plus, there is no way I’m carrying a 40-pound pack on my back for a year. And I’m not staying in any hostels.”

“Now there’s the girl I knew in New York City. How do you plan to keep your black pants pressed and your leather loafers clean? You had a hard time adjusting to San Francisco without your morning bagel, well multiply that by a hundred. By the way, where do you think we’re going to get enough money to buy—not to mention learn how to drive—two motorcycles?”

Cheap shots. I take the high road and ignore him. “I hope you saved the receipt for those books. I will earn the money. Let’s talk about the route and when we should leave.”

And so began our year of planning. We swore not to tell a soul (including our families) until we were certain we were going. Too many of our friends and family would think this was just some silly dream, nothing we planned to follow through with. No one we knew had ever attempted such a trip. The goal was to travel from Morocco to South Africa in a year.

This weekend, as part of our research, we rent The African Queen, Out of Africa, and Born Free. It’s Sunday morning, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s settled. I’m getting a big hat with a very long scarf. By day, the scarf will hold the huge floppy hat to my head; protecting me from the harsh African sun. By night, the scarf will be thrown dramatically around my neck a la Katharine Hepburn and Meryl Streep, helping me create the right image while enjoying my vodka tonic as I sit by the fire and listen to the roar of great beasts in the distance. As for the issue of how we’ll get around: we’re buying one of those Land Rovers—just like the one in Born Free. Andrew doesn’t know it, but I will find it.

While Andrew busies himself investigating backpacks, I start doing double top-secret work. I am trying to find us a car that can make it across a continent. I comb the Classifieds every day. I call car dealerships and question the salesmen about the strength of their trucks and Jeeps. I am hung up on repeatedly. I learn all about front-wheel drive, four-wheel drive, and all-wheel drive. Weeks pass. I feel frustrated, nervous, and quite frankly, tired of listening to Andrew talk about the hundred different features that each backpack possesses. He wants to get the packs soon so we could take a few trips and get used to them. I need a sign— to hell with that—I need the car. And I need it immediately.

And then, as I flip to the back of the Chronicle, on one particularly gray morning, I see it. The ad is simple. Almost too simple. I am so desperate that I become skeptical. I think maybe Andrew has placed the ad to torment me; it is something he would do. The ad reads:

For Sale. 1960 Land Rover, 30,000 miles. Mint Condition. Call Scotty 555-5555.

Can it be for real? Surely, Andrew wouldn’t waste money on a phony ad. We’re trying to save, after all. I look at the phone. I step out of my cubicle and peer around the corner. Susan isn’t at her desk. Neither are the interns. Hmm, am I missing a meeting? Smiling, I slink back into my cube and dial the number. I am barely breathing. A man with a thick Scottish accent answers. It is definitely not Andrew.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hi. I’m, ah, calling about your ad in the Chronicle. You know, the um, one about the car?” I have to be careful. An office eaves dropper, I mean, co-worker, might be lurking. “Can you tell me a little more about the car? Is it really in mint condition?”

“Yes, Love, this is one strong car,” I can actually hear the man smiling. Did he think I was stupid? “This car was made to go off-road.”

“Really. How’s the engine?” I am trying to think up questions that will make me sound smart. “And how about the tires?”

“They are all in great condition. The previous owner pampered her, barely drove her.”

“Well does it have four-wheel drive?” I’m no pigeon.

“It’s a workhorse, it’s designed for going off-road. Listen, why do you want this Landy?”

“Um, well, I, ah, want to drive it across Africa,” the last bit is spoken very quickly and quietly.

Now I can hear Scotty laughing. He does think I am a fool. “Well, Love, then this is the car for you. This car can make it across Africa and back. Why don’t you come by and see it?”

Okay, so maybe he doesn’t think I am crazy; if he does, he sure is smooth. All I know is that I need to get off the phone in case anyone is listening. I take his address and say I’ll be there Saturday morning. Now all I have to do is tell Andrew. I am too excited to wait until we are home so I call him at work.

“Hi, it’s me!” Trying to keep it light but I know my voice sounds high and squeaky. “You are not going to believe the ad I just found in the paper. It’s amazing. Do you have the paper?” I think I am going to explode. I can hear Andrew reaching for the paper. “Good, now turn to page C14, third column, middle of the page. See it?”

“Volkswagen Beetle, ’62, yellow, 120,000 miles?”

“Not that one. Although I always wanted one of those. Stop it. The one directly above that,” I can hear him sucking in air. I will have to work fast. “I just spoke to the owner and briefly told him our plan and he insists—insists!—this car can do what we need it to do, twice, as in we could go and come back in it. I told him we’d be by to see it on Saturday. I have the directions, it’s not far.”

“Louise. You are crazy. We don’t know anything about these cars. I will go with you to see it but I’m not buying anything. We will look at it. But don’t get excited. Don’t waste your energy. Okay? I’m not trying to be mean, I’m just being realistic. I have to go, I have a meeting in five minutes.”

Now I am excited. I can tell Andrew is totally into this car. He is just trying to make sure I am serious. We’re always testing each other like this.

The week takes forever to pass. I sit in meetings and think about the Land Rover. I edit, and think about the Land Rover. I cook, brush my teeth, go to sleep—thinking about the Land Rover. I do exactly what Andrew warned against. If this Land Rover doesn’t live up to my dreams—and if I can’t convince Andrew to buy it—I know I’ll be crushed and have to submit to carrying a bright purple, make that orange, backpack.

Saturday morning arrives and I cannot get out of the apartment fast enough. Naturally, Andrew is on a “go slow.” It takes him absolutely forever to eat breakfast, brush his teeth, and get dressed. I know it is all for my benefit. He purposefully hasn’t mentioned the Land Rover all week. He changes the subject whenever I bring it up. I guess I should look at this as his being kind—his trying to squash my expectations so I will not be squashed—but instead I look at it as him being a selfish brat. He can’t stand that I thought of the car idea first and if this car works out, well then, who’s the best?

The ride to Scotty’s is quiet, except for the last five minutes when Andrew reminds me that we (he) are not buying a car. We are only looking at this as a way to satisfy my curiosity…or something like that. I tuned him out the minute we rounded the turn into Scotty’s drive.

There she is. She is beautiful. Her shiny dark green body, off-white roof, and big knobby tires call to me. I jump out of our car and run to her like a long lost friend. Her back door is flanked by two large stickers, one of a leaping salmon and the other a very bovine-looking moose with an enormous set of antlers. This car has character. I can see Katharine Hepburn, I mean myself, in this car. This car is meant to drive us across a continent filled with sand, mud, and rocks. I look at Andrew.

Andrew looks like he did on our first date: smitten but trying to hide it. His mouth is trying to turn up into a grin but he is fighting it. His eyes give it all away—he is in love and he can’t hide it. I knew it. I just knew it.

A small man, with arms like Popeye and large rough hands that have clearly spent more time doing hard labor than deskwork, greets us.

“Hello, Love, you must be the lass I spoke to on the phone,” says Scotty.

“Good morning. And you must be Scotty,” I am trying to contain myself, “And this must be the Land Rover. You were right she is a beauty. Oh, and this is Andrew.” They shake hands.

“So were you serious when you said you wanted to drive her across Africa?”

“Yes. And were you serious when you said she could make it?”

“This car will make it back and forth and back again. She’s sturdy. No rust. Never been in an accident. And she has that beautiful winch on the front. You’ll never get stuck while that’s on the car.” Scotty certainly came across as an honest, kind, straightforward man. “C’mon, let me take you for a ride.”

I open the door and look inside. There are two seats and an empty spot in the middle. Scotty walks to his garage and grabs what looks like a seat cushion from an old car. He pops it in the middle and invites me to take a seat. We squish in. The car really isn’t designed for three across. Scotty turns the key, nothing happens. I tense. He smiles and points to the starter button below the dashboard. Ha-ha. She starts up like a dream, purring like a, very large, ahh, giant beast. Music to my ears. He takes us down his drive and around the block a couple times. All the while he’s talking about double-clutching and changing gears. I just sit there grinning and nodding. I don’t know how to drive a stick.

When we return to his house and get out I notice a funny smell on my clothes. Scotty sees me sniff and explains it’s the smell of a healthy Land Rover. It’s working like an aphrodisiac on me. I’m high and want to buy this car now. Unfortunately, Andrew is still scratching his chin.

“But we don’t know anything about cars,” he speaks. “We’re both in publishing, we’ve never changed the oil and never even touched a winch. I can see that she’s a beautiful car but I just don’t know. If we bought her, we’d be getting in way over our heads. I haven’t the foggiest idea about caring for a car this old in the middle of nowhere.” Hmm, Andrew is babbling. Or is this his negotiating style? Either way he is talking himself out of this car, this car that will act as the catalyst for me changing my life.

“Oh I understand what you’re saying,” He does? I sure as hell didn’t. “But the funny thing about this car is that she really is easy to take care of. Come here, look at the engine.” And he lifts the hood. “See, no computers. No fancy closed systems. It’s all open, easy to identify, and pretty easy to repair and maintain.” He is making her sound like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But to be honest, she did look simple and very clean.

“And I will teach you how to take care of it. I’ll assume you’re not leaving next week, so if you’d like, I will throw in a few months of lessons. I’ll even help you put together a list of supplies and you’ll also want a roof rack, I can help with that.”

“Okay, that all sounds interesting. We really appreciate your time but need to talk about this a little more. To be honest, up until now, we really hadn’t thought about making the trip in a vehicle. If it’s all right, one of us will give you a call later this weekend and let you know what we decide.” Is Andrew nuts? Surely he isn’t going to make me walk away from my car. I think about flinging my arms around the winch and refusing to release them until the title is in my hand. Instead, I look at Scotty, Scotty smiles. I smile at him and scowl at Andrew. I thank Scotty for his time and got back into our car. I plan to remain mute the entire ride home. I bury my nose in my sleeve, breathing in the wonderful Land Rover smell. Hell, I might not speak for the rest of the weekend. But then as we round the first corner, Andrew turns to me with a huge grin smacked on his face. “We’re buying that car.”

What?! Is he for real? Or is this just a test? I am not going to fall for it. I play it super cool. I narrow my eyes. “You think we should? Learning how to be mechanics isn’t going to be easy. Plus, what about the costs? That car isn’t cheap, all the spares, the fuel, it’s not going to be easy. I don’t know.” I am going to jump out of my skin.

Andrew pulls the car over. “Are you telling me that after six weeks of talking about this car nonstop, you’re suddenly not interested? You cannot tell me that that isn’t the car of your dreams. You can’t,” He pauses. “Right?”

Okay, he passes. “WE ARE BUYING THAT CAR!” Andrew floors it all the way home. That night I call Scotty, we talk terms, and we give him a verbal agreement. I will mail the check on Monday. He’ll have it by Wednesday. And the moment it clears, the car will be ours. Our first mechanical lesson will be the following Saturday. We are told to bring notebooks.

The week flies by. We talk, read, make lists, and look at maps. The trip is starting to feel real. And by the following Saturday night, I feel like a new me is starting to emerge. Well, sort of. To be honest, it is just the “angry me” that is emerging. See, I spent our entire first mechanics’ lesson playing Secretary.

We spent about three hours at Scotty’s, and for practically the entire time, Scotty spoke only to Andrew. Actually, that isn’t true. He spoke to me once.

“Be sure to take good notes, Love.”

Andrew got to unscrew the carburetor. Andrew got to check out the air filter. Andrew got to change the fuses. Of course, Andrew didn’t seem to notice that I was cut out of the conversation. It really was ridiculous, seeing how it is my car, too. Without my money, we wouldn’t own it. I’m the one who found it. I am not in this just for the ride.

I was angry with Andrew for not handing me a spanner and angry with Scotty for being a chauvinist. Since I live with Andrew, I’d have to get it off my chest or resign myself to bitterness and heartburn. Andrew was so excited after the first lesson that he didn’t pick up on my mood. I had to burst his bubble; otherwise, I would grow to hate him and the car.

“Andrew, listen, I know you’re really pleased with how the lesson went. It was very cool how you got to take apart the carburetor, change all those fuses, and clean out the air filter, but…well, I’m not your secretary. I hate taking notes. I want to have a turn with the tools. I want to get dirty, too.” There. I said it and held my breath.

Andrew listened, nodded, and agreed. Just like that. Next time, he says, he’ll walk in with the notebook and let me do the dirty work. He apologizes for getting caught up and not letting me have a turn at the bolts. Wow. That is that. Something upset me, I talked about it rather than let it stew, and the issue was resolved. Maybe I am starting to change before we even hit the road.

The following Saturday Andrew followed through with his promise. He took notes and I changed the exhaust manifold and rewired the blinkers. I felt like I really accomplished something big. Imagine, me, an editor, wiring a car. The manifold was the most exciting thing. The car really is simple. The repair manual reads like a recipe book: Step 1, unscrew the bolt. Step 2. lift out…

Now my biggest problem is getting the grease out from under my nails before work on Monday.

Zaire

I smell like monkey shit. I’ve never smelled monkey shit but I’m certain this mud smells exactly like it. It’s not earthy like mud should smell. It’s like carnivore poop and now I stink. My boots are covered in it. It’s all over my pants. Damn Bedford. If those macho boys could drive their Bedford properly we wouldn’t be sitting here smelling like last week’s garbage.

Seriously, if Scott had continued with the gas when he hit the bog hole he might be out the other side. Instead, he creeps into the mammoth hole and then that’s it: ten tons stuck. And it isn’t just mud we’re dealing with this time, it’s also water.

The truck is stuck in a huge muddy water pit. The Land Rover is way too small to pull it out. We can’t dig the wheels out because there’s so much water. Poor, pale, skinny Craig is close to 6’ 4” and the water is over his waist. Yes, he’s standing in the pit.

The brilliant plan is to try emptying the water out of the hole. No joke. We form a bucket line—that is everyone but Princess Shelly and her long blond hair. Craig is in the hole. He fills a bucket with water and passes it up to Brad, who passes it to Scott. Scott hands it lovingly to Christine, who bats her eyes before passing it to Lupe, but not without first splashing her—giggle, giggle, oops. Lupe scowls, mutters a curse in Spanish at Christine and then politely hands the sloshing bucket to me. I roll my eyes and hand the bucket up to Andrew who tosses it into the jungle, where I am certain it is quickly making its way back to the pit. Andrew flings the bucket back to Craig who has already started the whole thing with a second bucket. We did this for nearly two hours and managed to lower the water level by maybe two inches. We’re talking a lot of water.

We move on to Plan B. Sadly, this also means the super-skinny ghostly Craig must remain in the muck. For some reason Craig is not allowed to drive the truck. I make a note to ask Lupe about this later. It seems that to make up for not driving he has to do double work outside the truck. Brad hands Craig the sand mats, which have now been christened as mud mats. Craig gets down on his knees, yuck, and attempts to wedge a mat under each rear wheel. If we hadn’t left our mats in London he’d have four. Oh well, it’s not like it’s our car that’s stuck.

Anyway, we all—hey, where’s Shelly?—get behind the truck and stand knee dip in smelly, sticky mud and push when given the signal. Heave ho! The truck goes nowhere. Oh, there’s Shelly, she’s filming the action. Yes, one person should always remain tidy to record the others’ pain. I hate that wench. I’d like to knock her down. I mumble this to Andrew.

Andrew shushes me. He wants to hit her first, but I won’t let him. Although, I think Lupe might wrestle me for the first punch. I feel for her, Lupe, that is. Before we left home, I never had such strong urges to hit and harm another woman. I was a total pacifist. And here I am now, for the second time on this trip, wanting to pummel someone. But what I really want to do is take a shower and throw all my clothes away. That’s not going to happen. I just have to hope that the mud will dry overnight and I’ll be able to chip it off my pants and boots in the morning. Oh the stresses and worries of jungle travel! Nine months ago my biggest worry was how to break the news about this trip to my parents.

San Francisco

Nearly six months have passed. Our mechanic lessons are over. I have grease embedded in the skin around my fingernails. It will not come out. My hands are callused and rough. None of this bothers me. In fact, I often hold my hands out and admire them like a badge of honor. I am proud of what I’m accomplishing. Yet I must admit that I worry about the condition of my hands when I’m at work, I’m not ready to answer questions.

We’ll return to Scotty’s just before we leave and have the roof rack installed and for some last-minute checks on the car. The Africa Room (formerly the guest room) feels like it’s getting smaller and smaller. Books, maps, spare car parts, our homemade wooden storage boxes, everything is in there, hiding. I love standing in the doorway and looking at all the stuff. I get goose bumps whenever I spend any time in there because I can’t believe I’m really going through with this. This is the most daring thing that I’ve ever done in my life. No one is going to believe me when I announce our plans; which really must happen soon.

I’m tired of waking every morning to Andrew asking, “So, are you sure you want to go? Are you really, really sure? Because I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to do anything. This has to be your decision.”

As if he could ever force me to do anything. This is my decision. I need to do this. I want to push myself, find out what my limits are before my brain melts and oozes out my ears from leading such a mundane life. I always respond, “No, you are not forcing me to do this. Yes, I am positive about this. Please stop asking.”

We are not turning back. We are going. I know that when Andrew tells his parents they will be excited. Nervous, of course, but excited. They are used to his taking off and traveling. Sure, he’s never done it with a car and a companion, so there is hope that they may express a little concern. That’s what I’m expecting from my parents, an expression of a little concern. I’m hoping they’ll just be excited about the adventures that lay ahead, but I know them and they will worry.

My plan is to tell my parents when I fly home for a visit. I have two weeks to prepare.

The two weeks flew by, and boy, was I wrong about my parents.

They were beyond a “little” concerned. And they were not the least bit excited. They were just upset. My mother’s first words, “When are you getting married?”

I couldn’t believe it. She didn’t seem to care that I am planning a potentially dangerous trip to a rumored dangerous continent. All she cares about is a piece of paper and a band of metal around my finger. Okay, so maybe I exaggerate just a little, but the fact that this is her first question and only question for some time is more than startling. It hurt. Everyone else just thinks we are crazy and/or joking. Once I explain that we aren’t joking and that we do own a 1960 Land Rover (I pull out the photos) they conclude we really are crazy.

It doesn’t bother me that we’re not married. In fact, maybe this trip will be the deciding factor. Maybe I’ll end up hating Andrew. Maybe everyone should travel with the person they intend to marry before they marry. Maybe this would result in fewer divorces. Maybe I’m just talking nonsense. I do know that I am using this trip to figure out a lot of things. What if I don’t end up changing? What if Andrew and I do end up hating each other? Maybe this trip is a joke, an excuse. Maybe I’m just running away from my life. I don’t know why I’m suddenly filled with such doubt. I blame it all on my mother.

Why couldn’t she have just been thrilled and worried? Her third child is planning a journey across a war-torn, disease-ridden, bug-infested continent. This trip is certainly out of the realm of my normal activity and travel experience. I’m worried. I know they are too, but geez, can’t they get over the fact that we’re not getting married tomorrow? I mean I could die. Something or someone along the way could kill me, or Andrew. And then what? I’m going to let the whole thing rest. I’m going to return to San Francisco. I’m not going to call or write. They can contact me when they’re ready.

It took my parents a week to come around. I dare say that I almost preferred the silence. It was obvious they had spent the week making a list. Their list contained the following questions: Is Andrew dragging you into this? How will you pay for the trip? What’s the point of the trip? What about your career? What will you eat? What will you do if you get hurt? It went on and on and on and on. And of course, the marriage question continued to pop up. I decided to remain calm. There is nothing I can do. It’s not like I was asking their permission or anything. I just told them that the following year they would be hearing from me a little less often and from some unusual places. Of course, I would like to tell them that I’m making this journey because I need to. I need to discover what I can do. I need to push myself because if I don’t, if I continue on the path that I’m on right now I will whither away. I will loose myself entirely without ever having found myself. It all sounds so dippy, this “finding myself” but that’s only a small part of it. I want to experience some serious challenges and stop taking the easy, safe route. This, I would like to say to my parents but can’t. They took the safe route. It is what many of their generation did because they didn’t grow up with things feeling "safe" all the time. Both my parents were young children during the Depression. I think this made a lasting impression on them. Hence their feelings that one just doesn't quit a good job and take off without some serious, grounded, reasons especially when there will be no income generated for the year that we're gone.

Five months until we depart. Today we loosely mapped our root: we will ship the car from San Francisco to London. From there we’ll drive to Dover, hop the ferry to France drive quickly through Spain, take another ferry to Morocco, drive across the Sahara to Mauritania, Senegal, Mali, Burkina Faso, Togo, Benin, Nigeria, Cameroon, Central African Republic, Zaire, Uganda, Kenya, Tanzania, Malawi, Mozambique, Zimbabwe and finally South Africa. Whew. Just looking at the huge Michelin road maps that are laid out all over our apartment make me wonder if maybe my friends are right: we are crazy.

Friends back East have been calling. Many of them looked at my move to San Francisco as a bit risky. They reminded me of how much I loved New York City. They said I’d never make it out west. They asked how I’d survive in San Francisco without my bagel from the corner bakery in the morning. And speaking of coffee, surely by moving to San Francisco I would have to kiss my java goodbye and start drinking herbal tea. I assured them that people in San Francisco really do drink coffee, the only difference was, when you asked for a “regular” it didn’t come with milk and sugar in one of those blue and white Greek goddess cups. I had to learn how to add milk and snap the lid on all by myself. Yes, the first couple of times I fumbled. But isn’t life about learning and trying new things? As if my friends weren’t enough with their worries about my cross-country move, my Brooklyn neighbors were in a total tizzy.

For three years I lived in a wonderful little corner of Brooklyn— an old, Italian neighborhood that had yet to be discovered by the yuppies. My tiny little second floor apartment had a very noticeable slope, among other issues, but I didn’t care because it was the first place I ever lived in all by myself. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I may have been alone inside my apartment, but the minute I stepped outside, I had a whole block of friends. Most of whom were over the age of 60 and didn’t have their original teeth. When my father came to help me move in he was greeted by the local, um, Italian men’s club.

My father grew up in Manhattan and Brooklyn. He’s Italian and very familiar with the sort of people who made up my neighborhood, particularly the guys on the corner. When he was greeted by these gray-haired, pinky-ringed men, he smiled and listened as they assured him I would be very safe in the neighborhood. If I ever needed anything, they would help. My father nodded. He knew they spoke the truth.

Andrew had lived in the same neighborhood for five years. No one ever spoke to him. He had a constant battle with the woman in the bakery. She always waited on him last, even if he were there first. I, on the other hand, walked in, said hello, and was handed a warm roll with a smile.

When Andrew and I started dating, my neighbors gave him a very visible once over, nodding, but not smiling. When I introduced Andrew, I could tell the men’s club was not impressed. A few days went by and the guys stopped me when I was alone.

“Howsyadoin’?” said Tony, his pinky ring catching the sun and blinding me.

“Hey, Tony. I’m fine. How are you and the guys?”

“Oh we’re fine. Listen, we been wonderin’, whassup with you and that blond guy?” Hmm, was this really any of their business?

“Andrew?” Tony nodded. “Oh we’re dating. You know, he’s lived right over there on Union for close to five years. I really like him, he’s in publishing too.” I didn’t really know what kind of information I was supposed to divulge.

“Yeah, well, he ain’t Italian, is he,” oh, now I got it.

“Um, nope. He’s South African.”

“Oh, okay. We thought he might be German. You watch yourself. If he gives you any problems, you come tell me. Okay?” Wonderful. I hoped these guys didn’t have any daughters.

“No problem. He’s perfectly nice, always a gentleman.” This was great. If Andrew ever hassled me I could get him “taken care of” probably just with a nod. I’d have to let him know.

Anyway, when I broke the news to the neighborhood that I was moving to San Francisco, they seemed sad. They assured me that I would always have a place back in the old neighborhood should I ever need to return. I was sad when I left, because I knew I’d never return. Months later, I would read in the New York Times that Tony was killed. He was the driver for some big mob boss.

But that all seems long, long ago. Yes, two long years have passed since my cross-country trek, and my friends needed something else to talk about. And talk they did. They were all quite open and happy to tell me that this was not one of my smarter moves. Two friends came out and said I’d lost it.

They tried their best to not blame Andrew for my decision to drop everything and run away. No matter how often I told them that he wasn’t responsible for my actions, they just couldn’t believe it. I found that a bit insulting. I mean why was it so hard to believe that I might want to make a trip like this? Didn’t they think I had the backbone to go through with it?

I’m starting to wonder if anyone out there really knows me. On the other hand, it doesn’t matter what my friends say. I know they will stand by me no matter what. Their honesty does make me laugh. So, when they remind me that I’ve never done any real camping, that I’m a bit of a food snob, and that I love ice in my cocktails, I can’t argue with them.

Terri, one of my oldest, dearest friends, always focuses on the basics. She knows what is important. “Look,” she says, “you have what, six pairs of black pants? A couple black skirts (I remind her one is a brown plaid), oh yeah, that cute brown one with those little kick pleats. And what about your shoes? You can’t exactly wear a pair of Varda loafers in the African bush. The people would think you’re weird.”

She also wonders how I will wash my hair, shave my legs, and tweeze my eyebrows. It’s good to have a friend who really cares. I try to answer her questions while also trying to keep things light and involve her in my excitement. But I can’t forget that I’ve been thinking about and planning this trip for seven months. She, and all my other friends, are just learning about it for the first time. They have no idea how much thought, research, and discussion has gone into it. I feel awful now that I kept this a secret for so long. Terri and I have been friends since we were 11. I trust her with my life, but not with this? I regret my decision and know that our friendship is true and she and all my other friends will forgive me. They deserve to be mad at me for a little bit. I am confident that by the time we leave, they will all be rooting for me. They will be ready if I need help.

Andrew’s friends on the other hand don’t know me. For some reason it is their comments that hurt the most. I don’t know why this is. Most have only met me a few times. To be honest, I’ve always been very quiet during those gatherings. So I just don’t know why I feel so angry and yes, hurt, when I am questioned by three of them (women, no less).

Andrew and I are in New York City for a few days and Andrew had spoken to some college friends that wanted to get together for drinks. Now I’ve met all his close school friends at one time or another when we lived in New York. They’re friendly but very tight. Although they don’t see each other all the time, they’re close and tend to talk about nothing but their college days all while checking out the new boyfriend or girlfriend brought into their “circle.” To be honest, I like most of them and many of them do try to draw me into conversation. But by nature, I can’t help but hold back. I wouldn’t say I’m shy, but I am quiet. I can’t help it. Anyway, there are three women in the group who are exceptionally close friends. And one of these women, Jill, I am told had a thing for Andrew when they were in college. Nothing ever happened but she is still a bit “hopeful” is how it was put to me by someone else in their group. Jill often goes out of her way to ignore me. So, when Andrew said that Jill, Michelle, and Trish (I don’t think they are allowed to be apart) wanted to meet for drinks I wasn’t too excited. But since he joined me the night before with my former work friends, I really couldn’t complain.

I had spent the day at my old office trying to drum up some extra freelance. I ended up arriving at the bar before Andrew but not before Jill, Michelle, and Trish. What a mistake. They started firing questions at me before I even ordered a drink. Where have you traveled? How have you traveled? How long were you away? (Desperate for a drink, I tried to catch the waitresses eye. Damn. She turned away again. She must be in on this.) Seeing how my travel experience involved only a semester in London with side trips to Scotland, Wales, and Spain, the conversation wasn’t really that interesting. And I didn’t think they would count the time I crossed the border into Mexico to buy tequila as a “travel experience.” The thing is, I know that I haven’t traveled much and that was one of the reasons for my making this trip.

Not satisfied with my answers, they started telling me a thing or two. Jill fired one statement after another at me: This is going to be a mind-blowing experience. You’re not prepared for this type of trip. You haven’t traveled nearly as much as Andrew. You really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. She went on and on, twirling her curly blond hair as she spoke. I just stared at her dumbfounded. Then I started laughing. Yes, I said, I really don’t know what I’m getting myself into. And if you think Andrew does, then you’re naive. No matter how much travel anyone has done, driving across the African continent is going to be filled with surprises. We can prepare ourselves as much as we want, but when it comes right down to it, it will never be enough. For anyone. Besides who the hell are you to decide what type of travel someone is capable of? I’m not trying to prove anything to you. Who gave you the right to speak to me like this and be so judgmental? You don’t even know the first thing about me.

Okay, I really didn’t say that. I thought it. But I did laugh. I wish had the guts to say it because she was totally insulting. Once Andrew arrived, the girls went back to ignoring me, and I tuned them out and stewed. I’m okay with them not liking me, but I hate to believe that these women think I’m too weak to make such a journey because, well, I’m a woman.

I woke up at 2 a.m. (again!) in a panic that bugs were crawling all over the bed. There was a wide assortment this time: brown beetles with furry legs, green iridescent beetles, big red, spotted beetles, flies, mosquitoes, the list goes on. Maybe it’s the Tropical Traveler Medical book, I probably shouldn’t read it before bed. I can’t help it because I can’t stop preparing. At least I didn’t dream about the guinea worms again. That dream still seems so vivid. I can see myself drinking the water straight out of a creek. The next thing I know there’s a little worm poking its head out just above my left elbow. I try to wind it up on a matchstick (just like the book says) but the matchstick keeps breaking and the worm continues happily munching away at my arm…

This weekend Andrew and I are going camping for the first time. It’s nearly three months until our departure date and we haven’t bought any camping gear not to mention gone camping. Small details. On my way home from work I stop at a large outdoor store in the Castro. What a place. Two floors of tents, stoves, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, Powerbars, pots, pans, pillows…everything you could ever need to survive in the wild. I rent a tent, a stove, sleeping mats, and a lantern in preparation for our first camping trip. I am quite a sight standing on the street in the middle of the Castro waving for a taxi. I love San Francisco, but when you really need a taxi, Manhattan is the place to be. I stand on the curb with my pile of camping gear for what feels like an hour before a taxi stops. At least the driver helps me load the stuff into his trunk. Of course, I had to listen to some snide remarks about how ironic it is that I am hauling camping gear in a taxi. I got the last laugh when I told him to park next to the Land Rover so I could throw all the junk in the back. He is a little astonished by our vehicle and asks what we plan to do with it.

“Drive across Africa, of course,” I say, smiling as I pay him.

“You’re kidding, right? I mean I just picked you up on the street with a tent. You’re not really going to drive across Africa, right?” He gives me the once over. I look down and brush some lint off my pants.

“We’re leaving in three months,” I say as I return his stare. “Thanks for stopping. I need to get the rest of our stuff packed. Bye.” I head into our apartment and watch him through the window. He walks around and around the Land Rover. We’re not the first people to drive across Africa. There are books written about it. But whenever I talk to anyone about our trip, it seems like we’re breaking new ground.

The car is officially loaded and we’re off to Mendocino for three nights in the woods.

Three nights are behind us. We are back home warm and dry. To say the weekend was fun would be a lie. I’m suddenly worried about surviving the trip. We started our drive north a little after 5 p.m. We didn’t reach the campground until midnight. Neither of us took into consideration that our top speed is only 55 mph. Who travels at that speed in California? No one and we managed to irritate plenty as a result.

Seeing how I had rented the gear just that afternoon, we didn’t have a clue how to assemble anything, including the tent. It took us nearly an hour of cursing at each other in stage whispers to set it up. Once we got it together, we were too tired to cook (or figure out how to work the stove) so we ate a bag of chips, drank a beer, and passed out.

The next morning we concluded that you really are meant to use all the poles that come with the tent. It totally explained why I spent the night with the tent zipper pressed against my face. It also confirmed that campgrounds are not for us. Neither of us likes being too close to others, particularly when “their” idea of camping includes an RV loaded with everything plus a TV. Who wants to head out to the great outdoors and hear some whiny kid complain about TV reception? The smell of hotdogs? Ick. The rest of the day went a little better. We decided to pack up and camp among the redwoods in a “primitive campground.” Primitive meaning there are no toilets or potable water and most likely, no other campers within sight or smell.

We calmly set up the tent in daylight. Poured the wine, cooked the steaks, made a little tomato bruchetta. And then it started to rain. At first it seemed like it would pass quickly so we sat in the car to wait it out. We drained the bottle of wine before we realized that the Land Rover had some serious leaks. Rain wasn’t exactly pouring in, just dripping steadily. Thank goodness I brought gum. Against all his values and tastes, Andrew took half the pack. We chewed and chewed until the gum reached a smooth sticky consistency that we used as caulk to stop the leaks. Sometimes my genius amazes even me. Unfortunately, while we were chewing and talking about how long it would rain we watched in horror as our rented tent blew away. It just rolled and rolled, ping ponging off the redwoods. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Why didn’t we stake the damn thing? Stakes?

The rain finally stopped and we captured the soaking tent, rolled it back into place and toughed it out by sleeping in it. All the while we kept saying that Africa would not be this bad.

After a second night of little sleep but fortified by a delicious breakfast of bacon, eggs, mushrooms, and grilled French bread we packed up and headed out only to discover that it had rained much harder than we thought. The trail out was muddy and slick and covered with water. We charged through knee-deep puddles, slid along a muddy track, at one point slipping sideways into a tree just as I caught a glimpse of the lovely view down down down. By the time we traveled the three miles to the main road we were wet, muddy, covered in mosquito bites, tired, and very tense. We surrendered and spent our last night out in a B&B where we fell asleep at 7 pm and woke at 8 am to the sound of the worried owner tapping lightly on our door.

Safe at home and rethinking the whole weekend, it really wasn’t as bad as it sounds. It was worse. But that’s okay. We kept our wits about us and we worked through the problems. Sure, there may not be a cozy B&B for us to curl up in, but there will be places in cities where we can stop and rest and sleep on a bed. I hope.

It is exactly one month before we ship the Land Rover to London. There’s still so much to do. All our camping gear is finally in order and has been tested twice. Neither of our two subsequent camping trips has come close to that weekend in Mendocino.

I’ve put together a medical kit in a fishing tackle box. We’ve got Band-Aids, antiseptic, cotton balls, Pepto-Bismol, tweezers, insect repellent, even sterile needles. As for the toiletries, there are 18 rolls of toilet paper, a liter each of shampoo and conditioner, 12 bars of soap, Q-Tips, and a case or so of tampons. Andrew doesn’t understand my need for so many tampons. He keeps saying that women in Africa menstruate too and that I’ll be able to buy them in cities where the embassies are. I’m not taking any chances. I’m not even sure I have enough. Toilet paper (this is the other item I had to negotiate). Again, Andrew thinks I’m going overboard.

I’m nearly done with our packing “manifesto.” We’ll include the list (currently at 9 pages, single-spaced) with the Land Rover when we ship it. Customs requires it along with a load of other paperwork.

The Land Rover is off. We watched yesterday as it was loaded onto the ship. We are really going. I’m excited, nervous, scared. There is no turning back. There are four weeks before we leave San Francisco and fly east to see my family and new nephew.

Today I told Jeff that I would be leaving at the end of the month. I think he is a little shocked to hear our plans. I didn’t tell him how long we’d planned, but he must know. I hope that the next time—if ever—that I see him I will be a strong person, one who will be able to say, “Coffee? I don’t think so.” I want to be more willing to speak up and stand up for what I believe in. If I can push myself to my limits in the African bush, I can make it at any desk job that’s thrown at me. I mustn’t forget this.

November 10

Dear Terri,

The pink diary is yours now. I don’t want it anymore. Call it “getting my affairs in order” if you must. I just spent the last hour speed reading and destroying ALL my journals. Every notebook I’ve written in since eighth grade has been ripped up and thrown into the incinerator.

For some reason I spared the little pink book. Maybe because you’re one of the authors. I don’t know. I do know we did some pretty stupid things that week in Myrtle Beach. Hard to believe my first camping trip was in high school and with you of all people! I’m not having second thoughts about Africa, but I am wondering if I’ll make it. Yes, that’s why I killed all my journals. Couldn’t bare the thought of someone reading them and finding out more than he/she should ever know about me. If anyone ever asks anything, just deny it all.

Myrtle Beach, what a trip. What were our parents thinking? I clearly remember your dad giving us that baseball bat just before we left. “For protection, girls.” I wanted to pack a bat but Andrew insisted on a machete for it’s potential dual purpose. You know, chopping down trees and chopping off arms? Nearly everything we packed has a multiple purpose. Wonder what else a tampon can be used for? Let me know if you think of anything.

I leave for London tomorrow. I promise to write often. Please don’t forget to send your letters to the Amex offices on that list I sent earlier. They’ll hold all our mail until we get there. I’ll miss talking.

Love,

Louise

Zaire

I am unstoppable. I dare anyone to get in my way. I am Jane of the Jungle! Seriously, I am damn cool. I cannot believe that I, mild-mannered editor and doormat, successfully operated the winch on the front of our car without loosing my head—figuratively and literally.

Here’s the deal (I can write this now that my hands have stopped shaking. Yes, the shot of Nigerian whiskey that Andrew just administered helped the cause.): we were stuck in the mud. Sure, it may sound like nothing serious but it was. The left side of the car was leaning against a wall of mud, so I guess you can say we were in a hole, but it really wasn’t a hole, it was the road. The right back wheel kept spinning and spinning. It was creating a deep trench. Soon we were in up to our rear differential or more simply, the axle. The mud was thick. It clung to our boots threatening to suck them off our feet. We tried pushing, digging, and shoving stuff under the wheels for traction. Nothing worked. The mud was too sticky and too deep. We had no choice but to spin out the winch.

As we’ve learned from repeated problems with the Bedford, being stuck in mud is totally different from being stuck in sand. Unlike our time in the Sahara, we could no longer operate the winch “safely” from inside the car. To get better control and power, one person had to run the engine from inside the car, while the other perched precariously on the hood and operated the winch.

Now, this job wouldn’t be so bad if cables were guaranteed not to snap. But who would ever guarantee such a thing? Before we left the States, we saw a picture of a guy’s car after his half-inch thick winch cable broke and snapped back like a whip, tearing the windshield and most of the roof off the car. The owner was mysteriously missing from the photo. Even Scotty warned of the power of the winch: “Listen, Love,” I can hear him saying, “Check that cable before you use it. If it’s frayed, think twice. You’ll have thousands of pounds of pressure riding on it. Stay low and be prepared to act quickly, if you know what I mean.” If you know what I mean. Yeah, I knew what he meant: Let a guy do this dangerous job, it’s too tough for a girl. I couldn’t stop thinking about this as I unwound the cable and hooked it to the Bedford’s bumper some 50 feet away. Should I step back and let one of the guys step in?

With the cable secure on the Bedford’s bumper, I assumed my post as hood ornament. This was my first real time on winch duty and I was scared, if you know what I mean. Yes, it’s a new cable but there’s always that one in a million chance. Anyway, as I was trying to get a good grip on the tire mounted to our hood, Brad saunters over. Very casually, he leans over and asks if I am scared. Without waiting for my answer, he places his hand on the winch, essentially volunteering to do the job.

I paused for a moment or two to picture my head fly through the air like a melon. I nearly jumped off the car. But something in me said stay. On bridge after bridge I met my fear of heights head on; I could operate the winch. Besides, I knew that if I gave in, and Brad’s head didn’t get ripped off, I’d never forgive myself. Of course I was scared and I told Brad so. Wasn’t he? I politely declined his offer; I had to do it.

I nodded to Andrew and he revved the engine. I slowly pushed the silver winch lever down to start the spool turning. The engine growled, our little Land Rover crept forward, straining as it fought the mud. I gripped the tire for dear life. I could not take my eyes off the taut cable. A rear wheel hit a rock. The cable shuddered, the lever kicked back in my hand. I ducked. My heart pounded in my ears. I held on tightly and kept the winch turning. Out of the corner of my left eye I saw the others standing, frozen, watching. The thick, gluey mud gripped the car like a giant suction cup, forcing the winch to drag the three of us a good 20 feet before we were released with a burp.

Had hours passed? Nope, just minutes. I half slid, half jumped off the car, nearly landing on my butt because my knees were weak and my hands were shaking. It was over. I did it!

I did it! My skin was prickly. My blood was bubbling. I was a little light headed. I wanted to jump on the car and roar, “I AM Jane of the jungle!” but I didn’t, instead, I just grinned. I felt drunk. I tried to explain how I felt to Andrew but couldn’t make my words come out right. This was so unlike the person who left San Francisco months ago. I wasn’t taking the easy way out, I wasn’t shaking my head ‘no’ and letting someone else deal with it, I faced a challenge head-on. I pushed myself. I put myself at risk for failure and it felt good. I was in control.

An hour and a couple shots later, I still feel great. I don’t care about the Bedford. I don’t care about all the petty squabbles we’ve had with them. I don’t care about anything but the fact that Andrew and I are really making it across Zaire. This is what the trip is all about. I’m testing myself and I’m passing with flying colors. I feel so good I want to shout.

London

I am going to scream. I want to shake the stewardess right out of her support hose. The airlines should pay us to board their planes, torture us with cramped seating, rude service, and bad air. I know I could have taken a slow boat to London. It was my choice to fly. But it wasn’t my choice to be snapped at by a hostess (I didn’t mean to hit the call button, I swear!), smacked into repeatedly by the food and drink cart, or to have the hairy man in the seat in front of me place his flaky scalp in my lap for six hours when he reclined his seat. I feel so dirty.

Why did I insist that Andrew leave a week before me? Did I really need to spend those extra days with my sister? Sure, I got to see the baby, but all he did was cry and cry and cry. And then I had to dodge the marriage question, again.

I’m totally exhausted. It’s sometime during the middle of the night. And I’m somewhere over the Atlantic. The guy next to me stinks and snores. Plus, he keeps flopping over on to my shoulder. I can’t sleep. If the stewardess slams her cart into me one more time I’m going to lose it. My seat won’t even stay back. I wish Andrew were here. I wish I were back at my sister’s. I wish I were in our apartment in San Francisco. What am I doing here anyway? Why am I going to Africa? What am I trying to prove? I don’t think I’m strong enough.

If Andrew’s friend Jill were to ask me right now, am I qualified to make this trip across Africa, I would have to say ‘no.’ I can’t even handle a transatlantic flight. I am wiped out. I feel battered and bruised. I know I stink and am covered with that horrible man’s dandruff. I will likely not survive another hour, let alone a year in car.

I just want to sleep but first I need to find the train that will get me to Ted’s and Andrew.

Okay, things are not going well. I boarded a train from Heathrow to London and I think I was supposed to get off at the previous stop. I am totally disoriented. I can’t bare to wait for another train; I’ll just take a cab.

Ten pounds (as in sterling) later I am standing in front of Ted’s ringing and ringing the doorbell but no one is answering. It’s 5:30 a.m. they have to be home. If it weren’t so cold, I’d just curl up on the doorstep and go to sleep. Please answer. I just want to lie down and sleep for a few days.

Andrew finally appears. He’s just showered and looks totally energized and ready to go. In fact, I think he said something along the lines of ‘shower and lets go.’ I haven’t slept in 24 hours so things are a bit jumbled and confused. I hear myself apologize for feeling exhausted.

I wake to the sound of books being dropped. I hear Andrew clear his throat. I look around. Where am I? I see that I’m on a bed. I look at myself, I’m still wearing the clothes I put on yesterday, or was it the day before? My heart is pounding. My head is pounding. I stare at Andrew. He doesn’t look happy.

“Okay, so do you plan to sleep the entire day? We have a lot to do.”

I feel like I’ve eaten school paste. I am aware that I smell. Did I mention that my head is pounding? I need coffee. “Can I have a cup of coffee?” Andrew is glaring at me. “What?” It’s killing me to look at him. I wish he’d stop staring at me.

“Listen, I want to head to the docks. I want to get the Land Rover, get us packed up and out of here. Ted and Jen have been nice enough to put up with me for a week. I want to get this trip started.” He’s on speed.

“Hey, I want to go. I just need some coffee. My. Head. Is. Pounding.” I feel like I’m going to throw up. “Please. Coffee. Shower. Ready. To. Go.” Can’t he show a little compassion? I’ve been awake for a long time. I’ve been beaten up, lectured, and used as a pillow by a stranger (I have his dandruff on my sweater to prove it). I jump up. Not a good idea.

“What time is it?”

“It’s nearly 8:30.” Andrew is not smiling and not making a move to get me coffee.

My heart starts pounding faster, “In the evening? How could you let me sleep that long?” I realize that I sound like I’m whining. “Show me the shower. I’ll be ready in 20 minutes. How about some coffee?” I need to get to the bathroom fast. I’m going to vomit.

“It’s morning,” he says, flinging open the curtains.

“Ahhhh! The light! What are you trying to do to me?” I run from the room and fortunately right into the bathroom. He’s lost all sense of common decency, kindness, and sympathy. I spend the next few minutes on my knees. When I recover, I feel Andrew’s eyes burning the back of my neck again. He throws a towel at me and tells me to get a move on; we’re going out for breakfast. I am so not looking forward to this trip.

I packed one heavy wool sweater, long johns, a windbreaker, and a fleece jacket. I have all of them on, plus a pair of work gloves and an old knit hat. I catch my reflection in a shop window and am startled by who looks back. It ain’t pretty.

We just left a smoke-filled café where droplets of brown grease clung to the windows. When we entered, I immediately call attention to us by a series of rapid-fire sneezes. I blame the smoke. Once my nasal passage calmed down, I concentrated on averting my eyes and gulped down three cups of dishwater-like coffee, one cup of tea with enough tannin to strip the enamel from teeth, two soupy fried eggs, two slices of that awful English bacon, baked beans, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, and three slices of toast. Surprisingly my head is no longer pounding, but my stomach is grumbling. I don’t understand this.

I haven’t spoken much to Andrew since his extreme acts of cruelty this morning. We are on our third train. The trains are not as nice as I remember them—or maybe it’s just because I’m so cold and they aren’t heated. Strange, no one else looks cold.

We leave the train and step outside into nothing. I mean there are no homes. No buildings. No trees. Flat, bare ground covered by train tracks. I’m in no mood to trust Andrew’s homing-pigeon instincts, I walk up to someone who looks as disheveled as me and ask which way to the docks. He replies in some unintelligible language that I later learn was English. I stare at him blankly and he motions for us to follow. We walk a numbing mile to the receiving yard, most of it stepping over train tracks. When we finally reach “the docks” our guide points us toward a group of rundown, rusting trailers. The kind of trailers people without teeth, but great television reception, live in back home—you know, gray siding peeling off, but the place is landscaped with yuccas, lawn furniture, a grill, a large antenna, and a toothless owner with a comb-over and a bleached blond at his side. I peer around a corner half expecting a chained salivating Rottweiler to leap at our throats. Our guide had disappeared. We look for a sign but can’t find any so we enter the closest trailer. The place is empty. We call out (not that anyone can be hiding, it is just one large room), nothing. We leave and go to the next one. Better luck. People, some with teeth, some without, are sitting around drinking tea and munching on chocolate Digestives. It is teatime.

“Um, hi, we’re, ah,” my lips are frozen, I can’t speak. “Car. Need car.” Conversation stops. All eyes are on me. I try to smile, but can’t. My face is totally numb. I can’t feel my fingers or toes either. I reach up to touch my nose and discover it is leaking. Great.

“Hello,” Andrew steps in, elbowing me out of the way. “We’re here to pick up our Land Rover. It arrived on a boat about a week ago from the US.” He pulls out our folder of papers. One of the guys with teeth says we are in the wrong trailer. We need to go to the one two doors down. Andrew thanks him. I am too busy trying to coax my fingers into my jacket pocket for a tissue. I can’t work the zipper.

We step out of the trailer back into the Arctic blast. My eyes immediately start tearing and I feel the water drops freezing on my face. There are trailers to the left and right. We have no idea which one the guy meant. I want to go back in and ask but Andrew has already headed off and is waiting for me in front of another trailer, the correct one, he assumes. We enter and repeat our request for our car. Again, we are directed to a different trailer. This time we are told to go just one door down.

I don’t know what sort of pleasure these guys are getting from sending us on a wild goose chase but the next trailer is wrong, too. After 30 minutes of playing “where’s our car,” we end up back in the first trailer. That would be the very first one, where the guys were all sitting around drinking tea.

“We’re back,” I say, half thawed, nose wiped. “The last two trailers we were in said that this is the place we need to be. We just want our car. Isn’t there anyone here who can help us?”

“Yep, yer in the right place, love,” said a very burly guy with two of his upper teeth missing. “We wuz just on tea break.”

I smile, trying to hide my anger. Gritting my teeth, I ask again about our car, “All right,” deep breath, “so how do we go about getting our car?”

A cold blast of air blew in. I turn to face a giant. The giant is dressed in various shades of gray with a little red knit cap covering his bald head. The yellow glare from the florescent lights is blocked as half the trailer is placed in his massive shadow. “Hey, any of you seen that American couple lookin’ for thar car?”

“Um, that would be us,” I squeak, as my gaze moves up and up. His head isn’t far from the ceiling. He must weigh well over 300 pounds.

“Right. OK, I’m Ray. I can help ya out,” he sticks out his mammoth paw for me to shake. Ray could use a little moisturizer. “You lookin’ fer the little green Landy?”

“Yes,” My head still tipped way back. I’m having trouble understanding his accent. I feel as if I’m translating before I can respond. “My name’s Louise. Can we get her?”

“Louise? That’s me mum’s name. I love that name. She’s real sweet, me mum. Not a common name. Just wait ‘til she hears I met a girl with her name, not to mention an American with a little left-hand drive Landy. Can I call you Lou?”

“Sure. Can we get our car?”

“Well, I can show her too you but there are a couple problems.” The blood drains from my face. I am dizzy. “Hey, you all right, Lou?” Gosh, he’s big and sensitive. Andrew pushes me out of the way.

“Hi, I’m Andrew. What’s the problem with the car? Has she been damaged?"

“Sorry. Sorry. No, not damaged. She’s totally intact. The thing is, we can’t find yer trailer hitch. And we need you to unlock all those boxes so we can look inside. We need to send the dogs over the car.”

I look at Andrew and mouth “trailer hitch missing? Andrew nods. “Did you say our trailer hitch is missing?”

“Yeah, we cannot find it. Ya got the keys fer them locks?”

I look at Andrew. Andrew looks at me. I’m still looking at Andrew. “You do have the keys, right?” I shake my head. I can’t believe he’s forgotten the keys at Ted’s. “You’ve got to be kidding, Louise. That whole locking system was your idea. “ I can’t believe he’s blaming me for this. I’ve had, what, four hours of sleep in the last 36 hours? “Okay, we don’t have the keys. Can we see the car and then we’ll have to come back here tomorrow morning to unlock the boxes.”

Ray looks at me, “Ya know, I’m not supposed to be takin’ ya back thar with all the stuff we’re unloadin’ but since I like yer name, Lou, me mother’s name as I said, I’ll let ya see yer car. Would you like some tea first, ya look cold Lou.”

Huh? I have no idea what he said. His accent is so thick. Is he talking about his mother again? I look to Andrew for help. “Thank you Ray. We’ll skip the tea, but thanks, we’d like to see the car and get back to London to get the keys.”

I nearly weep when I see her — she is just as we left her. She doesn’t show any signs of her long ocean passage. And it doesn’t appear that anything has been stolen. All those tales of thieves on the high seas and at the docks, maybe they aren’t true. Or maybe our extreme locking system thwarted even the cleverest thief. This is what I’d like to believe since we spent a lot of money and time figuring out a way to secure our stuff.

Andrew was skeptical when I described the locking system. All I knew was that everything we needed for the trip was in two wooden boxes sitting in the back of the Land Rover and there was no way I would risk any of it being stolen.

Ray is clearly confused by the whole mess but has not cut any of the chains or the nine locks to get into the boxes. So, it’s back to Leo’s and then back here in the morning. Of course, we’re hoping the trailer hitch will materialize by the time we return. It’s a puzzle. That two-inch steel ball could only be removed with a large wrench (one we don’t even own). Who would want it? Ray assures us that we could buy another. He’d even have someone take Andrew to look for it. I’m exhausted. This has been a long day and I feel no closer to Africa than I did when I was in San Francisco.

I am sitting on a loading platform freezing my butt off. Andrew left nearly three hours ago in search of a new trailer hitch. I’ve been hanging out with Ray. Sadly, I had to tell him that I am partially deaf—to explain why I keep saying “what?” every time he speaks to me. I just can’t understand his accent.

Here’s how I spent the last three hours:

Hour 1: Unlock nine locks and remove web of chains. Watch as a perky little beagle jumps in and out of our car. I think about the six sterile syringes in Box 3 and wonder how I will explain them. Does ibuprofen count as a drug? What about Pepto-Bismol? And my prescription allergy medicine that I had to beg the doctor for a double prescription for? What about that case of chocolate Power Bars? The dog will surely tear into those. This whole procedure takes much longer than I anticipate. By the time the dog wags his tail for the last time, I glance at my watch and see that an hour has passed.

Hour 2: Ray asks me if I have a record of all the things we’ve packed. Oh, do I! I can hardly wait to hand him my computer-generated, alphabetized, 10-page manifesto listing and categorizing everything we brought with us. This little document declares everything right down to the last Q-Tip. The list is organized by box. The 12 boxes are nestled snuggly into the two large and two small wooden boxes we built in our apartment. Yes, we used a power saw and drill in our living room (hence the spike in our electricity that our dear landlord Ann asked about, sorry).

I watch as Ray fumbles with the list. He’s clearly impressed by my organizational skills. I see him blush at the sight of “Tampax: one case.” Ray confirms my list is accurate. Everything is exactly where I said it would be: Box 3 holds all spare medical supplies (ace bandages, antibiotic ointment, Band-aids, gauze, anti-itch lotion, rubbing alcohol, syringes). Box 4: Important odds and ends (knives, cooking utensils, coffee pot, matches, batteries, magnifying glass). I wish I could be at his pub tonight when he recounts his day. He’ll begin by talking about this American couple—her name is Louise, just like me mum! —who shipped a left-hand-drive 1960 Land Rover all the way from California. And they packed 400 Band-Aids, 18 rolls of toilet paper, a tub of hair gel, and a case of tampons for a trip across Africa. But they lost their trailer hitch…

Hour 3: Ray kindly treats me to a cup of tea in the canteen. Surprisingly, it is another smoke-filled trailer. My very sensitive San Francisco nose takes one sniff and sends me into an absolute sneezing fit. I blame San Francisco’s ban on smoking in public places for this. Because of all the clean air, my sinuses have cleared up and now when smoke gets up my nose I sneeze. And sneeze. It can be very embarrassing, particularly when I start sneezing in tight quarters like this canteen. Everyone froze. All around white ceramic mugs are suspended in mid-air. I continue with my machine-gun fire sneezes until the little hairs in my nose surrender to the smoke. Taking a deep breath, I smile and apologize to Ray. He looks a little shell-shocked, probably wondering what I will do next. The tea is warm and sweet. I wish for a cheese sandwich.

Forty minutes later I am still waiting. Where is Andrew? The cup of tea is begging to be released I but don’t dare use the single bathroom—men’s, of course—for fear of what I might find (or what might find me) in there. I know I could go back into the canteen but am not in the mood to cause another scene. In addition to stopping all conversation in the canteen, I received one, long, low whistle so maybe I don’t look quite as bad as I think. Of course, I may be the only woman in 20 square miles. And judging by the look of these men, I’m probably the only woman they’ve seen with a full set of teeth.

It is quickly approaching four hours. I’ve unpacked and repacked the car, twice. I couldn’t decide if the spare parts should remain at the top or the bottom of the inner box so I took them out and put them in a side box. I think Ray has cast a protective shield around the car and me. Every time one of the guys gets within 10 feet of me, he quickly turns around and heads back to where he’s come from. I’ve watched them unloading crate after crate of goods and I promise to never send anything by ship again. So far eight boxes marked “Fragile” have dropped from a raised forklift. I think our car was lucky.

Hooray! There’s Andrew! I swear, if I smell beer on his breath he’s done. Turns out the trailer hitches here are in metric, while ours isn’t. They finally found a hitch that was left on a bottom shelf in a back room of the last place they went to. Ray kindly attaches it for us before going around and checking the air pressure in our tires.

After a very odd and very long farewell from Ray (he looked little teary), who asked me to please write, we were on our way. And just our luck we arrive in central London during rush hour. Not only are we driving on the wrong side of the road with a left-hand drive British vehicle, but it is also getting dark and raining. We do manage to find Ted’s without any issues—as long as you don’t count a lot of honking and, um, finger waving. Ted and his wife Jen met us outside to check out the car. I watch as they try to hide their laughter behind expressions of concern: Are you sure this car will make it? Does it have safety belts? Where’s the radio and air con? They cannot stop snickering.

We’re going out for an early dinner. Our plan is to get on the road at 4 a.m. Before we left for dinner, we check the car to make sure we can roll out without a problem. We check the brake fluid, oil, and radiator levels. Surprisingly, the oil is nearly empty. Neither of us can figure out why since Andrew changed the filter and topped it up just before shipping. We add more.

We eat a delicious meal out with Ted and Jen. Ted kept mumbling that we better eat up since it will probably be the last real food we get until we reach Andrew’s brother in South Africa. Neither of them can stop smirking. I don’t know what the big deal is. Sure, she’s old, but she’s strong as an ox, or so we’re told.

The next morning we are out the door by 4:00. For some reason we both move to check the oil again. To our great surprise, it is low. We add more and don’t give it much thought until we pull away and looked back at Ted who is staring down at what appears to be a large, glimmering pool of oil. We keep driving.

Our goal was to make it to Dover in time to catch the ferry to France. It is important for good travelers to be flexible. Plans can change. I am currently sitting under a very large, fluffy duvet on a big bed in a B&B that is exactly 22 miles from the ferry. It’s very comfortable and warm in here. I even took a hot shower after returning from a delicious, yet very greasy dinner of fish and chips. It is bitterly cold and very damp outside. Why did we stop when we were so close to the ferry? Oil. We ran out.

As we drove out of London the oil light started to glow. Having never seen it on, it took us awhile to identify it. We actually had to pull out the shop manuals. With the correct ID and a gallon of oil at hand, I popped out of the car and topped us off. Away we went. About 20 miles later, the light was back on. Andrew pulled to the side of the highway—as people blew by us at incredible speeds—and I jumped out and added more oil. We repeated this many more times until we were staring at two empty gallon jugs. Luckily, our last bit ran out just as we arrived at the Land Rover outfitter we had heard about from Ray. Anyway, it turns out our head mechanic (um, Andrew) in his rush to change the oil before the boat sailed way back in San Francisco, left the old rubber washer in. Anyone could have made this mistake, I keep telling him. This prevented the new washer from making a proper seal…hence the oil loss. While the real mechanic worked out our problem (in between snickers) we did some shopping and bought a set of sand planks, more oil and filters, spare rear axles, and some reconditioned British army fuel cans. All stuff we need to have on hand before crossing the Sahara. We leave for the ferry right after breakfast.

Breakfast is a splendid pile of eggs, grilled tomatoes, bacon, sausage, mushrooms, and buttery toast. I want to head back to bed for a little nap under that duvet, but I can’t. Time to get on the boat and get us closer to Africa where it is bound to be warmer, just because it’s Africa, right?

Finally, on the ferry, the Land Rover tucked safely below us, we sit and watch the pale, yellow-toothed Brits go crazy over the duty-free cigarettes and booze. I don’t think any of them plan to get off the boat. They’re chain smoking, drinking (it’s only 9 a.m.), and carrying on like they’re on vacation. After I stopped sneezing, my eyes started burning. We are forced to get a pint of lager just to sooth our throats. This is not the kind of roughing it I had in mind. But alas, it will have to do for another 45 minutes.

The weather continues to not cooperate. Reports say that Europe is being hit with the coldest winter in 20 years and I can say that it’s true. Sitting here watching people through the smoke is making me homesick for some real San Francisco fog. I miss that warm, healthy glow we’d get from walking up hills. Anyway, I just spoke to Andrew and he’s in agreement that we need to zip through France and Spain. Gas is extremely expensive. Add that to our unexpected mechanic’s bill and a stay at a B&B and the numbers are not looking good. I’m starting to feel a little claustrophobic. I need air.

We stepped out onto the deck just as France came into view. How strange that sounds. It was absolutely freezing outside but the fresh air has helped to snap me out of the funk I worked myself into. Maybe drinking before 10 isn’t a good idea. I will make a note to do more research.

It feels good being off the ferry and actually in another country. Since our top speed is about half of what everyone else is driving, it is best for us to stick to side roads rather than the main motorways. So far it’s been very beautiful. The two-lane road is lined with tall, old trees. Oaks maybe? They are breathtakingly beautiful. It’s as if we’re driving through a winter wonderland. I totally expect to see the Ice Queen wrapped in furs appear at any moment on her sleigh. The ground has a light covering of hard, icy snow. Each branch of each tree—right down to the tiniest, thinnest twig—is covered in ice. The sun is hitting the trees at just the right angle to make them look like 60-foot jewels. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful and so peaceful. Andrew pulls over so I can hop out and touch one of the trees. It’s as smooth glass. I’m tempted to press my face against it but don’t. I’ve seen that movie. My rumbling stomach breaks my spell. We decide to find someplace to eat or else attempt to warm some soup using our new immersion heater that Jen insisted I buy. “Everyone uses these to keep their coffee and soup warm. You just plug it into your lighter and put it in your cup and ‘presto’ hot soup!” Well, if everyone is using one sign me up.

After an unsuccessful search for a little cafe, we pull into an official rest area and test the immersion heater. We open a packet of dry soup, add water, and plug the heater into our lighter. The instructions say it should take about 10 minutes. We wait. Andrew refuses to leave the car running because it would mean burning costly fuel. After 10 minutes I stick my finger in the cup, it’s lukewarm. We wait another 10 minutes it’s nearly hot, we drink it anyway because we’re starving. Lunch is over and it’s time to move on. My turn to drive. I step in and nearly fall back out. I look down at the well and notice a strange lump. I gingerly lift the floor mat because who knows, it could be a frozen rat, and staring up at me is our trailer hitch. I guess a very kind person at one of the docks placed it in this obvious spot knowing we’d find it when we collected the car. How stupid are we?

Okay, I can now say how stupid we are. If you plug something into the battery, you must keep the car running otherwise you will drain the battery. Duh. The little immersion heater drained the battery flat. This would explain why I am sweating while standing in subzero temperatures in a parking lot somewhere in France. We’ll never make it to Africa.

For the last 20 minutes Andrew and I have been trying to push start the car. We unhitched the trailer and have been taking pushing the car around this very flat parking lot. We were just about to take a break when a van filled with men pulled up next to us. Eight men jumped out, motioned me off to the side, and got behind our car while yelling, “GO! GO! GO!” This went on for a good 15 minutes—men in long white robes, heads wrapped, running and pushing and yelling—before our car would start. As they wiped the sweat from their foreheads, they watched as Andrew drove around and around the parking lot. Making sure that we are okay, they wave, pile back into their van, and drive off, disappearing as quickly as they appeared.

That little sidetrack took most of the afternoon. Seeing how it is nearly dark and still freezing, we decide it is best to find a place to sleep. We stop at a gas station, fill up, buy a loaf of bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine. Let me make this clear, we don’t buy spongy Wonder Bread, plastic American cheese stuff, and screw-top Mad Dog 20/20. We buy a beautiful crusty golden-brown baguette, an assortment of cheeses that includes a lovely looking Brie and a beautiful blue, and a bottle of red wine which cost a dollar, we are eager to taste it. This was certainly very different from the junk sold at American convenience stores. I feel completely embarrassed for my country. Why is it that we’ve let our standards for food drop so low? Who invented individually wrapped orange cheese slices anyway? I think that person should be punished.

Knowing that we are not outfitted for freezing weather, we decide it would be smartest to find a motel to spend the night. Similar to the States, France has let its night sky be destroyed by large, glowing advertisements. That is how we spot the Formula One Motel. We follow the glowing signs for miles before finally pulling into the parking lot. And it was none too soon because the smell from the bread that had been resting against our heater was so wonderfully intense that we had to slap each other’s hands to keep from ripping off bits of it. We get a room and attempt to park the car as close to it as possible so we can keep an eye and an ear on our home. What a thief would be doing out in sub-zero temperatures in a screaming gale is not something that crosses our minds. We just know that everything we need to survive in Africa is going to be out of our reach.

The motel proves to be quite an eye-opener not to mention a further drain on our wallets. The room was a cool $50 (don’t laugh, that’s really high when you’re traveling on a tight budget) and we don’t even have our own bathroom. The entire hotel looks as if it were designed and built by the makers of Lego. All the furniture—beds, desk, chairs, dresser—are built into the room and painted red, yellow, blue, or white. The bathroom is another story. Much to my dismay, it is down the hall. The bathroom is designed for a single person, most likely someone under six foot three and 200 pounds. It is just right for me. When I stepped into the little red and white room the door locked automatically. The toilet flushed on its own and the sink came on without touching anything. Shower? Same room. The drain is in the middle of the floor. I didn’t care that I smashed my knee on the sink the shower was hot. After my shower, I gather up all my stuff and step out of the room. I discover that I left a sock inside. I go to open the door and hear it lock. Then I hear water or something being sprayed. I look around and see there is a sign. It says the bathroom is sanitized after each use. I wait because I need that sock. Once the room is free and clear of cooties, the door clicks open and viola! the room is sparkly and my sock is gone. Yes, gone. As in disappeared. Traveling with a limited number of socks this greatly concerned. Not to mention that I am now incredibly curious as to where it went. I run back to our room and beg Andrew to use his French to please ask the guy at the front desk where my sock is. Andrew looks up from his book, reaches into his duffle, hands me one of his socks, and turns the page. Now we are down $55 and one sock.

The bread and cheese make everything seem all right. The cheeses really are scrumptious. We fight over the last piece of bread before realizing we are acting like children. So, we play rock, paper, scissors 13 times until we decide we really are children and rip it in half. I cough on the bigger piece. As for the wine, it was great, even out of tin camping mugs. Unfortunately, it seemed to disappear way too quickly.

As I drain my mug of the last drops of wine, I have a sudden memory flash. Actually, it was more of an “Oh shit!” when I realize that we left our paid for sand planks leaning against the counter at the Land Rover repair shop. Bad mistake. Our overland travel bible very clearly states to not leave home without a pair. Sand planks are long heavy sort of corrugated metal “boards.” You’re supposed to wedge them under a spinning wheel to give that wheel purchase. Sand planks, or mats as some call them, are a very valuable tool to have in one’s possession when a trip across a desert is planned. Of course, we had paid a tidy sum for them. Between the immersion heater and the planks, some might be wondering if whether or not I should have listened to those girls back in the bar, because we certainly don’t seem qualified to make this trip. How many signs will we need before we turn around?

Someone is trying very hard to send me a message. I’m certain of it. After driving all day, and receiving an endless number of stares and French hand gestures, we decide to stop for the night in a little village where the map identifies a campground. It’s still freezing and the wind is still howling, but we’re concerned our money will run out before we get through Morocco. Andrew, recalling some of Scotty’s wit and wisdom, wants to cook dinner on the exhaust manifold. This is supposedly one of those clever little tricks that “real travelers” know about and for some reason Andrew feels we fit this category. I am skeptical about cooking on the manifold, maybe it’s because I know I’m not a real traveler. Anyway, so Andrew reaches into the back of the car, opens the large wooden box and sticks his hand into Box 2: Canned foods. He pulls out a large can of French wienies and beans. Wienies sounds totally more French then hotdogs, don’t you think? He takes this large can and pops two “breather” holes in the top because this can is going to get boiling hot. He’s actually giddy. We’re parked on a side street in what must be a ghost town. I haven’t seen a single person since we arrived. Of course, that might be because it’s below freezing out and only “real travelers” can handle this sort of thing. We’re parked on this side street because we couldn’t find the campground and since we’re both starving we figured let’s eat now before it gets dark. Back to the beans. Andrew is standing outside, hopping from foot to foot trying to keep warm while watching the can of beans for bubbling action. Twenty minutes go by. Andrew taps on the window. I slide it open. He says, “Close your eyes.” I say, “Why?” He says, “Dinner is ready.” I am numb and figure that if I close my eyes it’ll keep my eyeballs from tearing and the tears from dripping down and freezing on my cheeks. I close my eyes and open my mouth. He sticks in a forkful of beans and a little French wienie. I gag. I spit. I throw open the door and hurl it all onto the curb. I glare at Andrew and he honestly looks hurt.

“What?” is he playing dumb?

“Andrew, you just fed me an ice-cold congealed French wienie! Do you think this is funny?”

“What? I thought it was hot. Sorry. It’s been sitting on the manifold for nearly 30 minutes. I swear, I thought it was hot,” he says as he takes a forkful himself and brings it oh so slowly to his nearly blue lips. He nods, takes the can, and dumps it onto the curb, leaving a little snack for a little French poodle. I take off my glove and feel the manifold. Ice cold. Duh. Did we really think the manifold would retain heat in these temperatures? Andrew quietly gets in the car and we continue our search for the campground in the dark. Chocolate Power Bars for dinner.

After a brutal day of driving in icy rain, we finally make it across the Pyrenees. It’s still cold but nothing like last night. We’re in a very grim campground but neither of us cares. We are sitting in the tent on top of the Land Rover. Our custom-built roof rack was designed to fit our tent exactly. Or did we buy the tent to fit the rack? Whatever the case, we are sitting in the tent listening to rain pelt the tent. Thunder crashes all around us. We hope that we won’t be struck by lightening even though it would make sense. But honestly, we really can’t be bothered worrying because we are eating one of the best meals I think I’ve ever had.

We spent our last Francs at a little gas station/grocery store just before crossing the border. We bought a small roast chicken, goose-liver pate, bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine. All for less than $10. We spread out our gas-stop meal on top of our sleeping bags under the warm romantic glow of a battery-operated lantern. Andrew opened the wine, I readied our tin mugs, and we tore into the chicken. It was the most amazing chicken we’ve ever had. And the pate! Oh. My. God. We devoured everything, including an entire bottle of wine, in about 15 minutes. We’ve turned into animals.

We are spared the lightening strike. But we do both wake at about 11 totally dehydrated from the wine. Neither of us is eager to climb out of the tent in the rain in search of water bottles so Andrew holds our mugs out the tent door. They fill quickly. Now this is roughing it.

The sun—yes, that glowing, great orb that promises warmth—wake us the next morning. I climb out of the tent and down the side of the Land Rover, put my foot on the ground and sink into mud up to my ankles. We had to put the car into 4-wheel drive to get out. This actually was a good thing, because if I hadn’t been standing behind the car, ready to push, I never would have noticed that the trailer lights were out. No wonder why people were honking and pointing at us. I thought they were just being French. Excuse-moi!

Andrew pulls onto a gravel drive and we check the connections. Everything is tight and clean. We pour over the manuals for much of the morning and can’t figure out the problem. Wanting to avoid potential news headlines such as, American Couple Causes 20-Car Pile Up While Circling Madrid, we continue very cautiously, taking turns as the car’s human blinkers.

“I need to turn right,” I shout and Andrew slides open the window, sticks half his body out pointing to the right while hoping the guy coming up behind us at warp speed notices.

Stupid trailer. We should have known it would cause us problems. When Scotty introduced the idea, Andrew thought it would be a smart to take it. The trailer was the back half of an old Land Rover. Someone had simple cut it off from the front half and welded a trailer hitch to it. At first, I was against the trailer because I know us, and it would just be an excuse to accumulate more stuff. Andrew seemed to think that we needed it to hold the extra fuel cans and spares that would be necessary to get across the Sahara. Envisioning us stranded without gas in the middle of the desert, I changed my mind. Within the hour, Andrew changed his, firmly believing that my original argument was smarter. It was too late. I couldn’t stop picturing us in the desert without fuel and water, wandering around lost as vultures circled above. And so we have the trailer. Now of course, I firmly believe that the trailer was a supremely bad decision. I still have fears about crossing the Sahara but I would also like to dump this costly, heavy, dangerous piece of baggage on the side of the road. Yes, I’m grumpy because I’ve spent the last three hours with my head sticking out the window as we navigated our way around Madrid. I have icicles in my hair.

But all that aside. Today is a special day. It’s my birthday. And because I opened my big mouth and claimed I could speak Spanish, we dined on fried eggs and French fries for dinner. Actually, it wasn’t totally my fault. The waiter at the tapas bar was being intentionally cruel and purposely not understanding my request for the common tortilla Espana (whose name slipped me in a moment of public-speaking panic). All I could say was “Huevos, um, y papas?” Of course, when the plate of fried eggs and papas fritas were placed in front of us, what I really wanted popped out of my mouth but it was too late. When the food arrived my face fell. The waiter and Andrew thought my flustered language gaff was hysterical. No worries, we ate and then went to another place where I got what I wanted without attitude.

Tomorrow we leave this god-forsaken campground and board the ferry for Morocco—AFRICA at last! It’s taken us over a year to get to this point. I can’t wait but I’m also scared. In spite of all the reading and preparation, I’m nervous about stepping foot on the continent. It’s not that I think we’ll be robbed—or worse, covered in bugs— the moment we arrive, it’s just that at last everything we’ve planned for is here. Our journey is beginning and all I want to do is re-count the Q-Tips. I have butterflies.

Have we prepared enough? Do we really know what we’re getting into? Will we be strip searched at customs? Will they be expecting a bribe? How will we communicate? My French is limited to “petit chou” thanks to Andrew’s mom. Don’t know why she thought calling someone ‘little cabbage’ would be helpful, but those were the words she sent me on with. I feel so unprepared, yet I am freezing, and I just know that Africa will be warmer.