February 1st. Thursday.

After saying goodbye to the Italians (and clearing up several of their discarded tins and a cardboard box), it was decided it was time for me to be taken to a doctor. This was at the hospital, l'hopital general, where I am now ensconced for three whole weeks. The French doctor pronounced my condition as serious ("Danger de mort", I remember being mentioned), and a bed was found immediately.

Very little treatment needed; mainly complete rest. An intravenous drip for two hours each day for a start, a course of Cortisone, and complete abstention from any fat or alcohol. Definitely no going ahead with the expedition as planned. Visions of having to fly home to wither away in that tropical diseases hospital hidden in the back streets behind St. Pancras station. Bedrock, you might say, at Bangui had been reached.

Back at camp that afternoon, they were pleased and surprised to see our Italians again. Their boat was not sailing till next day. So they could all join in discussion of our plight. One Italian suggestion was to follow them down river to Brazzaville, drive to the port at Pointe Noire, and take a ship home. Best idea was to find some other party going our way to join forces with; I could fly to rejoin them somewhere later. The disadvantage of waiting for me to recover was the approach of the rainy season; travel through Zaire in March was very much not advised.

So, what of life in hospital ? Once in bed in a breezy shady double room, I immediately began to recuperate. Something had now been done to help.

Still hardly eating, but I think I did start reading again, and by the time Marion returned in the evening we had convinced ourselves that I would be carrying on living, with interest. This is almost certainly the best hospital in CAR, and probably the best for 500 miles in any direction. How lucky to have become ill only one mile away.

In the next three days, with frequent visits by the others, often all together, there were great improvements in me and in our plans. The first good plan was to cooperate with a party of twelve in a Studebaker truck whose driver also knew all about Dodges, but when it turned out that they were expecting to reach Nairobi in ten days that was abandoned -- we would expect to take six weeks at our usual rate of progress. Two more British parties were, however, found at the camp site by the river who would be continuing south later, so it was decided to set off before them, and they would be willing to provide assistance from behind, as it were.

As for the hospital itself, Bo thought that there might be one or two little things that would be frowned on at home, but I was impressed with the free and easy atmosphere and lack of fuss. Not that I have anything to make comparisons with. No continual straightening of beds, excessive cleaning, polishing or hoovering. Yet adequately clean and tidy for my standards. Doctor and 'Surveillante' (Matron) are both French (Dr. Deme and Mme. Pilard), but the rest of the staff 'indigenes'. Friendliness and kindness are the keynotes. And the rats scurrying silently along the water pipes and air ducts of an evening are really quite entertaining. The fact that the water does not normally run from 8am to 8pm does not matter as long as one has a half gallon container to fill each night. Water does run all night, out on to the balcony and down on to the ground below.

Food: always an important topic of institutional life. Uninspired, but adequate for my needs. Great slabs of fat-free meat, tasty but chewy, twice a day at 12.30 and 4.30, with unlimited mounds of rice, and usually accompanied by good vegetables or salads. Masses of fruit -- pineapple, banana, melon, grapefruit. Curiously, no oranges, although readily available in the markets. Marion keeping me supplied so far. For drinks, a large bottle of fizzy orange covers both meals. For breakfast we are given merely an odd sort of coffee-chocolate that they call coffee, and dry bread (special salt free bread for me). I eke this out with home-made marmalade or jam, and -- luxury of luxuries -- Kellogg's corn flakes (at 50p a packet !). I can also make evening cocoa (cold), to go with a ration of Ryvita and biscuits.

The room has two beds, my companion being a 16 year old French student at the Lycee, also with hepatitis. His father is a coffee plantation manager, some 200km away. With all doors and slatted walls open, there are virtually only two walls left standing. A ceiling fan supplies a delicious wind, but in the hot afternoons even this is barely cool enough.

Feb.5. Monday.

Split ! Marion plays hand major, while I am dummy. Anyway, whatever we are playing at, they're off !

They all came in to announce their final plans at 11 o'clock this morning. Starting a day earlier than the other two parties, they will have been caught up by the time they cross the river at Bangassou and have to face the less good roads of Zaire. Plans for me have also been formed after visits to the Air Zaire office and the airport. I am to fly to Goma at the far end of Zaire on February 23rd, by which time they will about be there too. They will then be in need of another good rest, while I complete my convalescence at this holiday resort by Lake Kivu, 'the most beautiful lake in all Africa' (Zaire tourist literature). It was 1 o'clock before we said goodbye (luckily lunch was late), after sorting out things I might need here and discussing vehicle maintenance requirements. They left me with many books, and Peter and Marion have made excellent copies of the road maps so that I can follow their expected progress.

They have abandoned any desire to wait for a new distributor.

They are obviously longing to get away now.

I must console myself with the fact that mine will be the very much easier life for the next 18 days, but I'm sure they will enjoy theirs more.

So, "The wet season in Zaire was due to start in a few weeks..." continues Marion's diary, but, to remain with the expedition, it is now necessary to skip to the next section to read her 'Congo Journey' story, written after our return home. I will now merely tell more of hospital life and how I eventually managed to continue my own private journey.

Feb 6 onwards.

A change of bedside companion today. Benjamin arrived. Six years old and diabetic, he has to be continually attended by some member of his family. It seems that the children's hospital is not suitable for diabetics. So his father is here in the afternoons, mother in the mornings and she or some other relation brings her mat for the night and sleeps beside him on the floor. Nevertheless, they are all quiet and unobtrusive, and he almost never cries or whines; I can imagine Jennifer in a similar bored situation ! Mother's hair style is worth a comment. Rather than the normal many very tight short plaits sticking straight up out of the head, her hair has two separate loops which stand up about 6"off her head, each formed from two plaits spliced together. All ready for her to be hung up on a hook, it seems. All local styles look incredibly difficult to achieve.

An afternoon breeze is a regular welcome feature, often a strong wind with thunder, lightning and rain. I appreciate this, but not so welcome if it is occurring at camping time each day. My view is over other hospital buildings interspersed with trees, mostly oil palms and flamboyant trees with their large brilliant orange-red flowers, and a few frangipani bushes. A main road flows by, but is not too distracting.

Some hospital characters: The food porter who has asked me to teach him 'bonjour' in English so that he can give me an English greeting with breakfast. I can now wish him 'abelamao' too, in Sango. Then Jolly Ledoux, a nurse with this name on his pocket. He usually gives me my glucose drip, but one day the doctor noticed that it was too low down and my arm was swelling. Not so jolly for Ledoux -- or for me. Then there was Mme. Beuton, whose husband is in the next room. She has laden me with fruit and offered to bring anything else I may require.

The matron, Mme. Pilard, watching me eating my cornflakes, informs me that she has a small cup of coffee at 5.30am and then nothing till lunch at 1.0. I can well believe it, she is not overweight. French breakfasts can be taken to extremes. The doctor came in one morning with swollen lip and elastoplast and less than his usual cheerfulness. He had been clawed by his own dog.

Benjamin, the first time he noticed me doling jam on to my bread, came up rather pathetically thrusting his dry loaf in the direction of the jamjar with a wistful look in his eye. Unfortunately, I divined that jam is not really part of his diet, and apparently I was quite right.

Feb 10.

I had a visitor. M. Rousseau, of the ground installation dept. at the airport. I had telephoned him earlier, thinking he might be a friend in need, and indeed he was. He arrived with offers of books and other help. As well as good English, he spoke Spanish, German, Arabic and is a keen Esparantist. Next day he came again armed with biscuits, jam, writing paper, 'Esperanto for Beginners', and an American magazine (today's 'Newsweek'). By the end of the day I felt well topped up with up to date world news for a change.

I started vitamin injections instead of the glucose drip each day. Nasty for about three minutes; agony in my whole leg, and the effect took all day to wear off completely. The most powerful injection I can remember. The repeat next day had no effect at all ! Good progress reported after another blood test.

Peter's 'get well' card, presented to me before they left and now stuck up on the wall is really a most lively drawing, showing the 'Explorer' bouncing along a rough road in a cloud of dust; 'I hope you will soon be driving again like this' written underneath. I hope so too. A letter from Marion arrived, having taken six days from Bambari, 300km away. Not exactly up to date, but at least they have made a good start. I wrote to them again to Kisangani.

Feb 14.

I started going out for little walks in the early mornings. The weather seems to be getting hotter every day.

Seven 'Times' crosswords will soon set my brains to work again. These are the result of a telephone call to the British Consulate with a demand for reading matter. These last week's papers were delivered by a secretary along with 'Economists' and other less interesting trade magazines.

Next day I was in the middle of breakfast when I had my next visitor. A Swede. From a Swedish Baptist mission at Bouar. He had been bringing a friend to hospital and the doctor had told him about me. He soon returned with some novels and a Bible, and much interesting information about life and work in a Central African mission. And then M. Rousseau came again with more coffee and biscuits and news of the outside world.

I have completed a 'Times' crossword for the first time. Breakfast in bed with a copy of 'The Times' was not a planned part of this expedition.

Feb 18. Sunday.

Consternation. Last night I had to complain about a light shining into my eyes that Benjamin's mother insisted he needed. Today they moved out, presumably having found another room to share. Selfishly, I let them go. As a result, I am now able to adjust my own ventilation and light, and spent far and away the best night I have had here. I must have slept for seven cool hours instead of the usual three or four warm, sticky ones. The next morning I felt really refreshed, and my walk round the grounds was brisker than usual. Health improves. My Swedish friend says that Africans need a light to go to sleep by, but here it is never dark with plenty of lights outside. I learnt to recognise a mango tree and found one fruit to eat. Not much taste and not really ripe yet.

Two more letters from Marion from Bangassou (7 days delivery). They have met new companions, a German Volkswagen and a British motorcycle. After giving each other mutual help, they now seem to be firm friends and are happy to keep together at the same speed. Their route will not now be going through Kisangani, so will miss my letters. By now they should be in pigmy country; I am sorry to miss this.

Feb 20.

A blood test this morning means freedom from treatment tomorrow.

Financial worries: no sign of money or even a letter from the insurance company, so I thought I must do something myself. The hospital authorities thought so too, so I was taken to the bank to order cash from home. I did also cash travellers' cheques to pay half the bill and my air fare. But I needed more, specially as my dollar cheques had been devalued two weeks ago by the kindness of the USA.

Feb 23.

Departure from Bangui. In the end. After the most worrying morning of the week. And a near miracle.

Here is the story: A visit to the bank with Lieutenant Bokassa, head of hospital administration (all public services are strictly militarily controlled) confirmed the non-arrival of any money transfer. While there, M. Rousseau turned up. We sent a Telex message to London to make sure there was money in my account, in a rather vain hope of receiving a reply this morning. He then took me to his home. Over iced home-made orangeade he produced the near miracle. We had come here to confirm that he had in his safe 15000 francs that he would be willing to lend me, to speed me on my way. Difficult to believe, and I hated having to accept. But what would anyone else have done ? It seemed to be a gift, not only to me but to all of us. We were soon back at the bank where I signed the as yet non-existent money over to him. Then to the air office again, where I soon had a ticket in my hand to Goma, via Kinshasa, for this afternoon. But a rescheduling now meant that I would have to spend two extra nights in Kinshasa on the way. Not so good for meeting Marion at the other end. Then back to the hospital where Lt. Bokassa was able to give me a receipted bill, and the doctor my discharge and a list of treatment instructions. Quite formidable: no fat or alcohol for six months, diminishing amounts of cortisone for two weeks, various tests to be undergone in the next three weeks, and rest still needed. Any hope ?

A last hospital lunch, and M. Rousseau back again at 2 o'clock to deliver me to the airport. At last, with few further formalities, at 3.15 I was sitting in the plane. No thanks to him were adequate.

The relaxation of the flight was a great relief. A Caravelle with a mere sprinkling of passengers. We flew above clouds with the jungle visible below and occasional glimpses of the rivers, the Oubangui at first and then the Congo itself, a wide sweep of water with sandbanks, slicing raggedly through the jungle. But the clouds themselves were the most obvious feature; it must have been just as we were crossing the equator that we first met the fantastic scenery of great towering thunder clouds and anvil cumulus 1000 feet high above a sunlit cottonwool plateau. A tonic change of scene from that in the hospital. Made even more pleasant by the accompaniment of a light afternoon tea.

Touchdown 5pm. Kinshasa, capital of ZAIRE.

Various formalities, including a revaccination for cholera. The health official had an eagle eye for dates and six months was to long ago in his view. I was not aware of this. He keeps an ever ready needle with which to extract one zaire from one's pocket. The three zaires that I had thought I was allowed to import were frowned upon and confiscated for a few minutes before being returned with a change of heart. Luckily I was not asked for a visa or a ticket of exit from the country. I had to take a taxi for the 12 miles of sprawling suburbs to the town, with a helpful driver. My hotel vouchers covered two hotels, but these were both full, and my driver was able to persuade another, the Hotel Continental to take me in. I could not really complain even though I arrived in a power cut; one candle lit the reception desk, one candle lit the restaurant and one candle was placed on my table when I decided I ought to eat something straight away. No candles could alleviate the lack of air conditioning, but I enjoyed my white fish and salad dish -- suitable for an invalid -- then used my candle to light me to bed. "The water will be on at ten o'clock," I was told. So I went unwashed to bed.

Ten pm. No harm in trying. Water in the tap, water in the shower. Really hot. Ten minutes just sitting under the shower refreshed me no end, and I had a good night thereafter. Perhaps it really is a first class hotel. I had been beginning to wonder.

Next morning, back to the airport to get vouchers for two more hotel nights (and discover that my originally scheduled flight had left early this morning, so that I could have reached Goma exactly as expected by Marion. Most annoying). My extra days were filled mostly with rest and recuperation, and power restored in the hotel. The hotel 'patron' is a Zaire-born Portuguese, English speaking, so that ordering, for example, boiled eggs instead of roast chicken was made more simple than might have been. I have a budgerigar and parrot for company on the balcony at the end of the corridor, and hens and a night-crowing cock outside in the yard.

Anyway, early in the morning of

Monday, Feb. 26

I was at the airport again , ready for my 6.30 flight. At the check-in desk my name was not on the list, all seats were booked, and "we will see what we can do at 6.15." Not good enough. More worry, and then a brilliant inspiration. Back to the office where I had got my hotel vouchers two days ago. This was the office of the 'Chef de Base' and full of efficient uniforms with many stripes, and even the Chef himself. After a brief explanation of my plight, he led me out on to the tarmac. There stood a freight plane (a prop-propelled DC4), and there stood the pilot. "Just off to Goma?," asked the Chef. "Ten minutes." "Right, you are taking this gentleman with you." At 6.15 we took off.

There were in fact nine passengers on board. Next to me was the pilot of a plane that was 'en panne' at Goma; our plane was transporting two spare engines to replace two of his that had failed. He was an American speaking Zairean, having learnt to fly in America. So, but for his breakdown, I might never have reached Goma today. We flew over jungle, jungle and more jungle, with just an occasional tiny village with barely a track to it, hardly a road the whole way, and several small rivers meandering sluggishly through the trees. The Congo basin. Uninviting. It all emphasised the difficulty of communication between me and the rest of the family. After four hours of this there were suddenly hills below, steep, rugged hills, and soon we were in the western arm of the Rift Valley and over Lake Kivu, flying along its northern shore and looking out for a little group of tents on some of the attractive-looking beaches ! But no sign of these.

Goma airport. Nicely rural and unpretentious, the offices occupying a small bungalow. But they had no message from Marion.

The sun was shining pleasantly, a change from its maliciousness in the Congo basin, and, at a height of 5000 feet as we now were, everything felt noticeably fresher.

I got a lift into the town, found no message at the chief hotel, and the post office closed as some one had gone off with the key. And it started to rain. Feeling miserable, I considered how to spend the night, and soon had a bit more luck; I located a Mr. Smith of the Protestant Mission; although he had no accommodation to offer, he kindly took me to the Catholic Mission hostel where I found a room. So a cool, refreshing night followed with no need for air conditioning any more. 12 hours sleep.

Feb 27.

I woke to an auspicious start to a happy day. A 'family' breakfast for six in the hostel house -- ham and egg and home-made strawberry jam. The six were various mission workers and servants.

At 8 o'clock I did manage to get into the post office, where a LETTER FROM MARION was waiting for me. THEY WERE HERE ! That is to say, 15 miles away on a coffee plantation residing in their very own bungalow How they came to be there is explained in Marion's tale that follows.

The letter instructed me how to get in touch with them, by phoning Mr. Kostatt, the Greek Cypriot plantation owner, meeting him in the town and being driven out to his house among the coffee trees. There beside it stood a Dodge M43 ambulance. I was nearly home. A 'boy' took my luggage and led me down a narrow path to a bungalow From the bungalow came familiar sounds, Peter, Jennifer and Timothy sounds, and there were the whole family just finishing lunch in the dining room. I was home. Reunion. Lunchtime.

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