PART TWO

Problems with the Series III

by Toby Savage

We are a total of 22 people made up of Archaeologists and Geographers from various Universities in Europe. All of us know each other from previous trips and we are looking forward to heading south out of Tripoli to our home for the next six weeks, Germa, in the Libyan Sahara. Squeezing all of us in to my Carabungawagon, The Archaeologists venerable Series 3 Station Wagon and the, ever reliable, Mazda Minibus is always a challenge. We opt for putting all the rucksacks in the Station Wagon with driver and co driver, 15 squashed in the Minibus and five in my Carabungawagon.

We attempt to cover the 600 mile trip in one long haul, leaving Tripoli at about 5.00 am. Nothing moves in the city as our little convoy picks its way through the back streets of the city trying to remember the route out of town. With all the signs in Arabic and resembling some infants squiggle it is tricky. There is no one to ask as the streets are deserted. GPS readings from the previous year help, but the signal is never too good in a built up area. With darkness still prevalent we reach the edge of town and the pot holed, unlit road that is the main route out of Tripoli. Once out of town though, the surface improves to a good tarmac surface as we speed across flat farmland that separates the Mediterranean coastline from the escarpment that signals the northern edge of the desert. Shadowy figures crouch in the darkness at the side of the road awaiting a pick up to take them to work in the fields. With no street lighting and all those dark faces and clothes the Land Rover’s headlights are not good enough to see much so we stick to about 45 mph until the sun peeps its familiar face over the horizon.

A night stop to top up the old 109 with petrol, chuck another 2 litres of oil in and gaze at the stars.

On this flat straight road we can see the Jebel Tarabulus (Mountains of Tripoli) on the skyline and all three vehicles bowl along at a remarkable 65 mph in glorious sunshine. Our first hint of trouble is when we reach the wide, sweeping climb up the edge of the Jebel. This is dual carriageway and has a series of tight bends punctuated by alarming skid marks and gaps where cars on the way down have lost control. As many of the older cars have no brakes, these being considered unnecessary when driving in the flat desert areas, and many of the drivers heading up to the coast have probably never encountered a hill before, this situation is understandable. Our own problem is a slightly slipping clutch on the old 109 Station Wagon. With 500 miles still to go we opt to take it very easy up the hill, even resorting to low box to spare the clutch. A peep underneath shows a regular drip of oil from the clutch bell housing and the probability of a knackered rear crankshaft oil seal. It is with some relief that we make it to the hilltop village of Mizdah and the start of the flatter desert road.

Those who have not visited the desert assume its all dunes, but that is far from true. Our road south covers mile after monotonous mile of quite the flattest most boring road imaginable. Fragmented rocks and boulders make up the most inhospitable surface and the monotony is only broken by the odd village with waving children or the bizarre appearance of someone out for walk in the middle of nowhere, alone and with no sight of a car or camel.

With a map in Arabic, navigation can prove tricky

Our day is broken by a welcome lunch stop at about 10.00 am in the delightful town of Al Qaryat (Those struggling with the pronunciations of these Arabic names should try coughing up a ‘Docker’s Oyster’ whilst pronouncing the name.) Al Qaryat is on a crossroads and has three restaurants, a petrol station and a persistent wind. Nothing else. However, the service is swift and the chicken and cous cous as good as any. Those brave enough can then visit ‘The Worst Toilet in the World’. This fly invested hole in the ground is situated out of smell range behind the garage, and is only visited by the desperate. It is particularly cruel on the women in the group as there is no cover to ‘nip behind a hedge’ on the route. Forced to hold our breath, we venture into an atmosphere so thick you can feel it clinging to your skin until the next shower. Still. It gives us all something to talk about for the next hour.

The Series 3’s clutch is getting worse and it can now only manage about 50 mph on the flat and is in danger of needing a tow up any steep hills, so it goes in front and Cara and Mazda follow at the reduced speed. This is going to delay our arrival in Germa and there is no option but to carry on. There are no Travel Lodges on the route, just rocks and sand.

A rare overtaking manoeuvre in the 109 with the clutch slipping wildly

By 6.00 pm its dark and after a brief chat it is decided that I should take the lead in the Cara as I have four great big spotlights mounted high up on the roof rack that give a far greater visibility that either of the other two vehicles. We agree to stick to 45-50 mph as we are all tired and the Series 3 is on it’s last legs, the clutch slipping like mad, and chucking a litre of oil out of the crankshaft oil seal every 100 miles. Good job oil is cheap!

We are just beginning to resort to violence to keep each other awake when the Cara leaps into the air and lands some metres up the road. I stop and switch on hazard lights, brake lights and the reversing lights to warn the others of something. We all stop and take a look. Recent rains had washed away about a metre of road as a 20 cm deep channel right across the road. Unlit and unsigned I had hit it at 50 mph and leapt, gazelle like it the air only to land like a sack of potatoes on the other side. Certainly woke everyone up!
We take the opportunity of stopping for a brew and gaze up at the stars, crisp and clear in the desert sky. No traffic passes in the half hour we are there and after a reshuffle of passengers and a sneaky wee for the girls under the cover of darkness we are on our way aging for the final hour to Germa.

The Worst Toilet in the World. Hold your breath!

Despite it being 1.00 am by the time we arrive, figures appear from the darkness to welcome us. Old friends made over the four years of the project materialise from nowhere, aware that we were due to arrive ‘soon’. With unreliable communications it is impossible to be more accurate that that. Beds are made and by 2.00 am the team are all tucked up in ropey old beds snoring their heads off and I am lording it out in the splendid comfort of the Carabungawagon contemplating the series 3’s clutch problem.

A typical hazard of desert driving, fortunately encountered in daylight.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .