The journey, not the destination

Paul Williams shares some memories of his London-to-Cape-Town adventure, nearly 50 years ago

In 1963, when I was 25, I set out backpacking from London to see the temple built over 3000 years ago by Ramses II at Abu Simbel - before the Aswan Dam flooded the site.

As we docked in Alexandria, I watched a "Hulley Gully man" (street conjurer) producing live chicks from his mouth and dropping them to run around his feet.

I had already taken the train to Cairo and wandered the busy streets and the museum. Then on to Luxor, its temples and the Valley of the Kings, which I toured by donkey.

A paddle steamer took me to Abu Simbel and I let it return without me, sleeping in the sand so I could see the temple at dawn.

A guide held a polished sheet of aluminium to reflect sunlight and I walked in to see 14 statues of Ramses II carved from the sandstone cliff so long ago.

It would have been the most satisfying end to the journey but then, on a foolhardy whim, with my money running low, I decided to go on. I thought I might even reach South Africa, where my father had last been heard of 18 years before.

I crossed into Sudan. The train journey across the Sahara seemed endless, especially when a sandstorm cut visibility to metres. When we reached Khartoum, some students I had met on the train invited me to stay a few days.

Further south, near Omdurman, was the largest open-air market I had ever seen. Here I bought tinned food and boarded another paddle steamer, which chugged for a fortnight through the Sudd, a wetland area in southern Sudan, which stretches for 450km, clogging the White Nile all the way to Juba.

Travelling on a third-class ticket, I was supposed to share the mosquito-proof cages with Dinka tribesmen carrying spears. I didn't fancy that, so by day I watched the wildlife and at night slept wrapped in a mosquito net on the deck until a second-class berth became available a few days later.

In 1963, the conflict in the south had already begun and to obtain an exit visa at Juba I had to prove I had transport to the Ugandan border. A Ugandan Indian with a lorry load of coffee came to my aid for a small fee and also included a tour of Ugandan coffee farms. The exit was an adventure in itself as the army took over a Nile ferry for two days and we were stranded. Luckily some Dinkas fed us, or we'd have gone hungry.

From Uganda, I went by bus to Kenya, where I managed to get a job driving a truck for a farmer about to return to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). This resulted in three fabulous months in Kenya, then a journey of a lifetime on through Tanzania and Zambia. The trip wasn't easy, the rains had begun and some days, getting stuck and breaking down, we made hardly any progress at all. Then in Zambia one night, thugs raided our camp and my pack was stolen with my camera and journal of the journey. I was left with only the clothes on my back.

I found temporary work in Zimbabwe, then went on to Botswana, where I landed another job driving a truck for the Game Department. It was an unbelievable opportunity to see wildlife close up . One day, the game officer surprised me and took me across the border to the Victoria Falls. I doubt David Livingstone had been more impressed than I was.

Reluctantly, I took the train to Cape Town to finish the journey - and search for my father. The Immigration Department in Pretoria had no records going back to the 1940s and suggested the Tax Department up the road. Unbelievably, they gave me his address in Amanzimtoti. I nervously took off and, two days later, knocked on his door. He said: "Come back in a couple of days. I haven't told my family I was married before."

The important thing in life is not the destination but the journey.

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