The problem with son-in-laws

In the African bush many normal tasks can take on new dimensions. Sometimes, quite innocuous events can even become life-threatening. Take meeting my mother-in-law. In the raw African night, it was a close encounter with the jaws of death.

It all started when a letter arrived from England. I was doing some research in a large game reserve and living in a caravan with my British wife, who was a few months pregnant. It had been a while since she’d seen her mother, who was proposing to come stay with us.

Our one roomed caravan and the Land Rover. 

The fact that we were living in a small caravan and that I hadn’t yet met my mother-in-law added a certain element of, well, perhaps excitement was the wrong word. It certainly created a logistical problem. A plan had to be hatched in the weeks before The Arrival. Accommodation for my mother-in-law was found in the rest camp, not too far from where we were camped. A few days before The Arrival, I was confident we’d anticipated most, if not all, of the hiccups that could occur. 

A gradual introduction to the bush, perhaps a short drive, followed by a barbeque under the stars and pleasant natter was an important part of my plan. Then I’d take it from there. When the small plane arrived at the dusty landing strip in the late afternoon, I was ready. Importantly, the beers were as cold as I could get them without a fridge. I thought they’d be ideal for someone who came from the land of lukewarm ale. 

All went very well at first. We chatted about the flight and first impressions of the wild bush. It was a warm evening and we were surrounded by the strident calls of cicadas and the other sounds of the late afternoon bush. My mother-in-law didn’t seem too bad. I was warming to the occasion and suggested a drive to look for animals.

Now I should mention that my wife’s mother was somewhat older than your average mother-in-law. Suffice to say that getting her into the Land Rover required a small stool and a hefty shove from the rear. This slight hitch over with, we set off. Soon the brooding twilight enveloped us. As the sun set, we saw all the wonders that abound wild Africa: the velvet bush, owls, impalas, kudus, giraffes, baboons, tranquil hippos and, of course, elephants. I revelled in Katie’s excitement as she saw these new sights all around. 

As the sun set, we saw the silhouette of an owl. 

In the dusk, all appeared calm in the hippo pool.

Delighted, we started our return to camp. I sped up because I was keen to get the barbeque going. Just then, there was a dark lump in the middle of the road. This soon resolved itself, unexpectedly, into a lion.

These pictures show the hungry lions waiting to pounce.

 

If you stay for just for a short while in a reserve where lions are found, you will discover that most visitors are on the lookout for lions. They pass all manner of interesting spectacles, even the impish antics of monkeys and baboons, in their unreasonable quest to confirm that they are indeed in a wild area. Whatever my thoughts on this topic, the fact remains that lions are what visitors seek. And without seeking, my mother-in-law and I had found them.

All thoughts of the barbeque disappeared as we stopped. There was a pride of at least 10 adults, sitting a short distance from the road. A magnificent sight and certainly different to Devon sheep. I drove off the road to get closer. A few flies buzzed around the head of the closest lion. She ignored them. In the fading light, the lions’ fur blended with the rusty colours of the combretums under which they lay. These were real lions, doing what real lions do most of the time – nothing much. Some had moved a bit closer to the Land Rover, but apart from that they just lay there. After a while, thoughts of the barbeque returned and I decided to go back to camp. 

I tried to start the engine. Silence. Absolute silence. No click, nothing. “Let’s just watch a bit longer,” I said, hoping that my new "friend" had not noticed the little mechanical mishap. Illogical though the idea of waiting may be, it did give me some time to think about what to do next. 

Picture, if you will, a Land Rover with a brand-new British mother-in-law as accustomed to the ways of Africa as one could get after less than a day in the continent. A Land Rover with no means of starting, parked off the main road in the pitch dark. A biologist with limited mechanical knowledge all surrounded by a large pride of lions. 

Opening the bonnet to have a look inside was obviously not an option. I was going to have to spend the night on the front seat of a Land Rover with this stranger, this mother-in-law person. The emergency tin of baked beans under the seat was little consolation. There was no Moon. I could hear the lions, stretching into a more comfortable position, easing stiff limbs. Flexing sharp claws. I could sense them, hungry, ready to jump at me and my inheritance. I wanted my mother-in-law to be somewhere else. I related all I knew about lions, pretending that we were there because we wanted to be there. Seemingly hours passed. My knowledge was exhausted. She knew something was wrong. We were very late.

A hungry lion, stretching  his jaws.

Incredibly, just as I was about to tell her that we would have to spend the night here, a vehicle came along the road. As I slouched lower in the seat and wished our vehicle would vanish, the mother-in-law opened the window furthest from the lions and shouted at the top of her voice, “HELP!” The thought of sharing the front seat of the Land Rover was probably too much for her. 

The driver of the approaching car stopped. I explained what had happened and asked him to pull his vehicle next to mine, open the door and let us get in. He was, understandably, reluctant. I had to spend a fair amount of time cajoling him into doing this. Eventually, I stooped very low and appealed to his ingrained sense of male chauvinism and his great sense of hospitality. I explained that there was an overseas visitor, a maiden in distress, who needed his help as I was totally incompetent with mechanical things. I laid it on very thick. He eventually drew his vehicle up next to ours and nervously opened the passenger door, never once taking his eyes off the lions, highlighted in the headlights of his vehicle.  

Recall, if you will, that I did not have a young maiden in the vehicle with me. In fact, she’d required help getting into the Land Rover in the first place. I was a trifle concerned that getting her across the seat of one vehicle, down and across about three metres of open space, in front of what were undoubtedly ravenous lions, then up and into another vehicle, may pose more than a little problem. I needn’t have worried. 

She’d carefully sussed the situation and decided that her new son-in-law needed a severe talking to and that she would have to survive the next 30 seconds if she was to give me this. And survive she did, with aplomb. A quick slide, a jump, one step across three metres, and a perfect leap into the Land Cruiser alongside, was all it took. 

On the return trip I was more nervous than a stranded driver among a pride of hungry lions. My mother-in-law had survived what I’m sure she believed was an attempt by me to bump her off – as far from the New Scotland Yard as possible – so that I could claim her millions. Her methods of revenge are another story, but this was one tale she dined out on many times.

Back at camp, I survived an attack from my very worried wife. My mother-in-law eschewed the luke-warm beers I'd carefully looked after and rather shared much of the tax-free scotch with my wife  as the story was retold. I busied myself with the barbeque and then survived a second attack from two very angry women. I don’t remember if the barbeque was a success I was too busy trying to figure out how to get my Land Rover back.                                                                                                                   

Mongolia - final

 PART 3

This is the third and final blog about my National Deaf Children's Society charity bike ride from the Gobi Desert across the Khangai Mountains in Mongolia. The 20 riders and the support crew had established a daily pattern which involved daily briefings and approximately 60km rides through magnificent, remote valleys and hills. Gradually as we travelled north towards the mountains, the climbs got steeper and longer. The wide valleys and steep edges of the Gobi had given way to more mountainous terrain. Long climbs with wonderful views and a sense of achievement at the top, followed by scintillating descents now occupied our days. As we approached the mountains, we started to see trees for the first time on the ride.

I had never been to Mongolia and as expected, there were vast cultural differences between my background and Mongolia and its people. The nomads, whom we seemed to have now left behind, lived off the land with very little input from outside. Such was their understanding and use of biodegradable, natural materials that non-biodegradable stuff, like sweet wrappers or broken bits of motor parts were simply discarded and left to litter the countryside. As a conservationist this, I suppose, evoked equal feelings of admiration and hopelessness. Not unexpectedly, we had several interesting discussions as to the sustainability of this lifestyle. Their children had very little opportunity to do anything in life other than be a nomad. When under Russian rule, each child had to go to school. Now, following independence, this was no longer the case and the children of nomads stayed with their families. It was better under the Russians, someone told me.

Despite the absence of Russian rule since the fall of the USSR in 1991, there was a strong Russian influence in Mongolia, not least in the architecture and the vehicles. In stark contrast, Buddhism is the main religion of which there is much evidence and we saw many monasteries and ovoos (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ovoo) along the route as well as being hosted by nomads in a ger and served all manner of delightful cheeses and yoghurt made from yak milk!   

Traditional ovoos. These Buddhist shrines litter the 

Mongolian countryside. 

Each night we camped under the stars. One evening just after we'd pitched camp, a howling gale hit us. It came out of nowhere and rattled the vehicles, blew the bikes over, removed anything not tied down and damaged three tents. In a frenzy, we did our best to secure the tattered and broken tents in the rain and wind, at least until things calmed a bit. Then we staggered into the support truck and sought solace in Tiger beers. The massive truck rocked in the wind. 

During the evenings, more often than not out of nowhere, locals would appear; on foot, horseback, motor bike and once, by car. They came to say hello, their curiosity piqued about what we were doing and to give us their best wishes. The Mongolian support team acted as our interpreters. Given the alternative culture, it is not surprising that I found many events unexpected. On this particularly stormy evening, astoundingly, the back of the truck opened and three dishevelled young kids catapulted inside, the ferocity of the storm behind them. They had come from up the valley to say hello. The eldest was a boy of 13 and was training to be a Buddhist monk. His sisters were 12 and 7. After a period of exchanging pleasantries we found out that they had walked a fair distance to visit us when they were caught out by the storm. Communication was slow, requiring translation and discussion among the support crew, about correct interpretation.  But eventually the three understood what we were doing. When they did understand, in the howling gale and rocking truck, youngest sang us a song and the eldest gave us his Buddhist blessing for safe travels.  A trainee or not, five minutes after the blessing, the storm stopped abruptly. All was calm. Take from that what you will. I've tried on numerous occasions back in Britain to use a blessing to remove bad weather but to no avail - I just have not had the adequate training, clearly!

As we approached the end of the trip, I reflected on my diabetic control. All my support mechanisms had been removed and replaced with foreign conditions ranging from new people, increased activity, different food, sleeping conditions and the great unknown. The wide range of my blood sugars wasn't too surprising given these changes (although I did hope that my six months cycle training would have offset this a bit better). But I had no further diary entries about diabetes except at the end of the trip where I wrote that they were under control! With understanding, I recall, from my fellow cyclists.

My tactic was to cycle at the front of the group to get a bit ahead (there were about 5 of us that were a bit fitter than the others). We'd stop after a while at an interesting spot and I'd quickly unpack my glucometer, do a finger prick test with a drop of blood, take whatever action was needed, and pack it all up again before the main group arrived. 

Finally, on the issue of diabetes, a reading of 1.9 mmols stuck in my mind. The five of us had a friendly competition up every hill. On day 3, camp was on top of a hill with a long climb. Half way up I went flat out to the top which I reached first. Happily I reached for my glucometer only to see a disappointing 1.9 mmol reading. A quick non-scientific look at the internet indicates that readings of 2.2 mmols are dangerous and a coma can occur at this level! I recovered quickly after eating glucose and applauded everyone as they reached the top.

As we left the Khangai Mountains, the landscape changed 

into rolling hills

The final days were spend riding good quality roads.

The final days riding were long but easy. On the second last day we passed the 300km mark and had now traded tracks for a higher quality gravel road across undulating plains of the Mongolian plateau. Blue skies overhead and Karakorum our destination tomorrow!

Ovoos still were common along the route. Here we take

 a break on the second last day. 

We made a fast time and despite stops for photographs and to complete the customary three revolutions of each ovoo we passed, and there were many, we completed the 80kms in four hours. We camped outside a small village on a grassy plain and played football against the Mongolians. The 2006 FIFA World Cup was taking place in Germany and this was our world cup - Mongolian hosting England. We got hammered by the delighted support team! 

This ovoo (on the cliff top) was a spectacular bull. We 

did not climb up to do the three circuits!

The final day was as exciting as it was sad. We were all pleased to have completed the ride and good friendships had been established within the group. But we were sad to be ending a magnificent trip. The last ride in Mongolia was short, only 40kms and similar to the previous day, undulating terrain on and good roads. We were going to Karakorum, the ancient capital of Chinggis Khan's vast empire. The town lies in a valley surrounded by hills which offered great defence as the town dwellers could see the dust of any approaching armies. 

We road to the top of a surrounding hill and then down into the town. The usual first five or six of us had a final celebratory sprint and then waited for the rest to arrive so we could enter Karakorum as a group. 

The end in Karakorum!

Outside the magnificent Erdene Zuu Buddhist Monastery we toasted completion of our 385km trip through the Gobi Desert by riding under a banner of balloons and pausing for a team photo and champagne. The Mongolian support team had again pulled out all the stops to make this a trip of a lifetime! The temple had been destroyed in the 16th century and was rebuilt using salvaged materials. It had been saved from the Stalinist purges by conversion to a museum but today it is an active monastery. We were euphoric as we entered the monastery grounds and marvelled at the architecture. The surrounding wall  resembles a Tibetan Buddhist rosary with (possibly) 108 stupas (small Buddhas and108 being a sacred number) The monastery's temple walls are painted and the Chinese-style roof is covered with green tiles. 

Traditional Mongolian guide next to the Erdene Zuu 

Monastery

The Erdene Zuu Buddhist Monastery

The Erdene Zuu Buddhist Monastery.

The Erdene Zuu Buddhist Monastery.

The Erdene Zuu Buddhist Monastery.

We made camp a few kilometres from Karakorum next to a meandering river set in grassy hills. It was a delightful setting, calm, serene even. The sky Mongolian blue. We quietly cleaned the bikes and packed them into boxes for the return to England. A few children on battered bikes watched from a distance until we noticed that their bikes were in desperate need of attention. Our mechanic, who had little to do on this trip thankfully, did what repairs and replacements he could. The kids were delighted and proudly paraded their 'new' bikes around the camp. 

The final night's campsite was beautifully serene. The 

campsite is in the distance. 

The final night's campsite,

Packing the bikes for transport back to England. 

At our camp on the edge of a small meandering river, Khatar Ekh, a troupe of Mongolian performers ambled up the river to our camp and entertained us as the sun sank behind the hills. This was a most beautiful setting. I was both happy to have completed the ride but sad that it was the end. A warm, calm evening, local folk music with haunting throat singing made me recall a fund raising concert that I had organised six months earlier. At that concert the band composed a Mongolian song in honour of the trip. They would not have been out of place next to that river.

The Khatar Ekh group on the river bank at our 

final campsite.

The Khatar Ekh group: magnificent throat singing

The Khatar Ekh group

The Khatar Ekh group: acrobatics to music!

At our camp on the edge of a small meandering river, a troupe of Mongolian performers ambled up and entertained us as the sun sank behind the hills. This was a most beautiful setting. I was both happy to have completed the ride but sad that it was the end. A warm, calm evening, beers and local folk music with haunting throat singing made me recall a fund-raising concert that I had organised six months earlier. At that concert in England, the band Paspatou composed a Mongolian song in honour of the trip. They would not have been out of place next to that river.

Blog 5 Mongolia

Mongolia, desert, bikes and storms

This is the second blog about my Mongolian bike ride; a charity ride raising funds for the National Deaf Children's Society. We were in the middle of the ride in southern Mongolia and just moving north away from the Gobi Desert towards the Khangai Mountains. The 20 riders and the support crew had established a daily pattern which involved briefings and approximately 60km rides through magnificent, remote valleys and hills. This blog highlights one day in which there was an epic bike ride. All mountain bikers have an epic bike ride at least once. I've had a few but this is one of the most epic. It's all about the weather. 

What stood out for me in Mongolia was the rapid changes in weather. I was there in June - mid summer. And, when the sun was out, it was warm - hot even. But, many rivers had thick ice on the edges, sometimes up to a metre thick. This was difficult for me to grasp; warm weather and ice? 

Frozen river edges in m id summer. 

As the sun went down the temperature plummeted. Cold nights are not unknown in deserts due to the clear night skies that allow the day's heat to escape rapidly and Mongolia is famous for its clear blue skies. But clear blue skies were not something seen all day, every day, as in the South African highveld winter. Far from it...

Blue skies are characteristic of Mongolia.

Sunset Mongolian style. The weather changes rapidly there. 

A few days into the ride we woke to light drizzle. But it was reasonably warm and we set off into weather which got progressively worse. We were wearing shorts and summer shirts but were soon cold. After about 15km we stopped for tea in the support truck and, following a quick discussion, decided to try to continue. I managed to find a warmer cycling top but soon after leaving the truck the weather got worse. I was riding head down into the gale and just pedalled as hard as I could, focussing on the few metres in front of me and blanking out the cold and wet. Somehow I pulled ahead of the main group. Then it started to snow! We had agreed in the truck that we would reassess conditions after 10 km. As I approached the waiting truck, I resolved not to stop and was riding fast to keep warm. Sitting, wet in a truck, waiting for slower riders was not an option for me and I blazed past the truck on my own, trying unsuccessfully to keep warm. At some point three other riders caught me, having made the same decision to continue. We encouraged each, other taking turns working on the front. My feet were numb and my hands, in fingerless gloves, too cold and stiff to change gear. At more than one point we waded through rivers of melt water, adding to our discomfort. On reflection, it was more immediately before entering the water and emerging into the bitter wind, cold and wet that was so unpleasant, rather than actually wading through the water. 

Eventually as we came over one of many hills we saw one of the the support trucks! And beyond the truck, about a kilometre away, was the village of Tseterleg, our lunch venue! We raced the truck into the village to a small hostel. The four of us just dropped the bikes and staggered inside, numb with cold. As we collapsed, delighted to be out of the wind and rain, we were offered tea and cake. We cradled the warm tea in frozen hands and devoured the cake, not caring if we finished it all. While we were gulping sustenance, incredulously, a voice asked if we wanted a shower! 

I was last in the shower and spent the waiting time anticipating the feel of warm water, the first for several days. The brilliant support team had got to the hostel ahead of us and arranged this reception. They even organised a power wash of our bikes, which had also been through a lot.

It was too epic to photograph during the ride but this was 

Tseterleg just after we arrived. The snow must've melted!

Cleaning the bikes in Tseterleg in front of the heavenly place

that offered showers, tea and cake!

Only nine of us managed that morning's ride. The others, sensibly, seeking shelter in the main truck. That evening our team leader called it the day from hell. But when we pitched our campsite outside Tseterleg we noted nods of approval and smiles from the Mongolian support team. By the time lunch was eaten, the storm had blown over and we explored Tseterleg under a sunny blue sky! 

Buddhist temple in Tseterleg.

I suppose this is an ovoo with customary blue khadag.

Tseterleg as the storm cleared to give rise to blue sky!

In Tseterleg there was a supermarket where we eagerly stocked up on supplies including Chingis Khan vodka, and spent ages photographing a Buddhist temple, one of the main religions in Mongolia. Tseterleg reminded me of small villages in Africa and of Alice Springs in Australia. But unique to Mongolia was the array of stuff just lying around the village: animal bones, skulls, tow hitch, tyres, the odd shoe and a few side shafts. Eventually, of all places, we ended up in a disco, in the dark with strobe lights and beers, it was incongruous to say the least! It was six in the evening. I sat in shorts and T shirt drinking a cold beer reflecting on the epic ride a few hours earlier. Ekbold, our Mongolian support handyman, looked over the rim of his beer glass and said he saw nothing out of the ordinary! 

Bikes, deserts and travel

This blog is a little bit about diabetes (ha ha! it's with us 24/7 isn't it) away from the comforts of home where treatment is a tad easier. But it's not just for diabetics, it's a story about an amazing trip. I'm sure all of you have had these. This is one of mine! The location is remote, very remote. In fact it is the most sparsely populated country on the planet. And we visited one of the least populated areas of this country - the Gobi Desert in Mongolia. A vast area of grasslands and U-shaped glacial valleys.

How and why you may well ask. 

After living in England for about five years one of the many things I noticed was how generous Brits are. You name it and there is a charity in Britain working to support that cause.  If there is a disaster somewhere on the planet, the Brits will support it. As an example, a letter about a cycling trip to Mongolia in aid of the National Deaf Children's Society dropped through my letterbox one day. Raise some number of thousand pounds and go for free, or words to that effect. I immediately went about enlisting the help of the small village I lived in to raise the necessary funds. The next 6 months were, to say the least, hectic. Split between fund raising, 5 to 6 hours long training rides, planning and buying gear as well as being employed full time!

Gradually we reached required amount. I was set and off to Ulan Bataar I went. 

I can't remember how 20 or so strangers found each other at Heathrow Airport but we did and soon set to getting all the bikes through customs. Then the introduction to this unknown world of Mongolia came in stages. The hubbub of Heathrow airport and the commercial, intercontinental aeroplane was well known. But it was my first trip to Asia and we landed at  Ulan Bataar, the Mongolian Capital via Seoul. Ulan Bataar is a mix of modern capital and the rustic roots of Mongolia with strong Russian influences. The contrasts were stark; our plush hotel on the first night had neighbours living in a yak-skin ger! 

Our first night. An upmarket hotel in Ulan Bataar.

The hotel neighbours seen from my room window. 

Next morning we boarded a noisy, prop-driven plane, which fitted well with our destination, the sparce landing strip at Bayanhongor in the Gobi Desert; the starting point of our ride. The bikes and support crew were already there and we eagerly sorted out who would ride which bike and the kit we'd take on the bikes for the short ride to our first campsite. Of course, I filled my rucksack with glucose and my trusty glucometer and impatiently circled the ditherers on my new bike.  A light rain fell but stopped soon after we set off.

From an inter-continental Boeing to a prop-driven plane.

 

Day 1 preparing the bikes at Bayanhongor. the rain had 

just stopped!

Yaks, goats, sheep, cattle and horses spread out around the village. The ride was easy but cold. As I rode I viewed the snow on the surrounding mountains with some concern despite their beauty. We rode up a valley surrounded by hills. There were no trees and grass stretched to the horizons. 

Day 1 ride to our first campsite!

We soon got to the the first night's camping spot. Our gear had been unloaded from one of the large support trucks and groups of two were quickly assigned small tents. I immediately got on with Jim my partner and we chose a spot for our tent before joining the others around a warm fire where we drank beer and got to know each other. There were 20 riders with a support team of cooks, a mechanic, a doctor, a cycling guide and drivers for the three vehicles. Five were Mongolians and turned out to be the nicest, caring people you could wish to travel with. In fact, the whole support team was fantastic and we were all keen to start the riding next morning. I finished my last beer as the sun bade us goodnight in a blaze of colour. 

Magnificent views of Mongolia. The fist night under the stars 

was wonderful but cold. 

That night was really cold and I was thankful for packing an inflatable mattrass, thermals and arctic sleeping bag. These items would be well used by the end of the trip.

I was up before seven and the sun. Breakfast was nearly ready and I happily accepted coffee. Standing in the cold dawn clutching the cup to warm my hands, I watched the sun rise and eagerly anticipated the day's events. After breakfast we got our daily briefing about the ride. We had lost some time the previous day and needed to make up 15km in addition to the 45km on our way towards the Khangai Mountains and would stop briefly for a quick lunch in Shargaljuut where hot springs are claimed to cure all manner of ailments.

A pattern emerged over the next 6 days. The support crew drove our kit, tents, food and beers from campsite to campsite and provided wonderfully welcome meals. We rode about 60km each day across vast valleys, and frozen rivers crossed by rickety wooden bridges. 

A rickety bridge; tricky to ride across but speed was the 

best approach. 

In these vast open spaces we occasionally came across clusters of white-walled gers inhabited by self-sufficient nomads. These nomads take the term ecologically sensitive to a level unheard of by us modern humans who are dependent on everything to be manufactured and provided. The nomads lived in circular tents called gers made from yak skins. A central was stove is powered by dried yak patties and they live off delicious milk, yoghurt, cheese and cream from, you guessed it - yaks. Special occasions called for yak meat. 

Traditional nomad gers with tethered yaks on which the 

nomads depend so much. 

Their main transport is the horse with magnificent wooden saddles. Everything is pack upable and they, their yaks and horses move across the remote landscape up to 5 times a year. A few families had entered the 21st century and used solar panels to provide some energy. Sometimes families had motorbikes but how they got fuel was anybody's guess.

A nomadic family with their main transport. Note the 

wooden saddle. 

A nomad family with home packed on yak carts.

We rode along wide, glacial valleys where meandering rivers flowed. I was surprised to see many rivers had edges of thick ice as it was mid summer. I should not have been surprised, Ulan Bataar is regarded as one of the coldest capitals in the world! Despite the cold, a day of riding provided enough impetus for me to strip and wash in the freezing water at every opportunity. 

Even in summer many rivers were icy. Nonetheless, I bathed 

in them regularly. 

On day three we climbed to a 2600m point up a magnificent ridge of limestone boulders with amazing views across the vast landscape of mountains and rolling valleys. At the top was an Ovoo, a pyramid of stones, sticks and silk scarves which is a shamanistic offering to the gods. We passed many of these ovoos some of which were large enough to be more of a temple than a simple altar. The custom is to circle the ovoo clockwise three times and to add rocks or a blue Khadag (a ceremonial scarf symbolic of the blue sky and sky spirit Tengri) to confer safe journeys. 

After lunch and several more climbs we had a fantastic rapid descent of several kilometres into the glaciated valley of the boulder strewn Tuy River where we spent the night. 

These days were idyllic. Fantastic scenery and great riding. Not a building or road in sight. Well, idyllic if my blood sugar behaviour is ignored. On day 3 my diary simply states "blood sugars difficult to control ranging from 20's to 1.9 mmols" (normal range is above 4 to about 8). "I will get it right. Must monitor bloods before eating sugar!"  The note to monitor before taking sugar relates to the pre-Continuous Glucose Monitor time. CGMs appeared about a decade later and hugely changed the lives of diabetics. Small sensors on the skin with hair-like implants monitor body fluids. You scan the sensor to get an instant measure of your blood sugars. If the reading is less than 4 - eat carbs. If higher - don't. All while not stopping riding! I've no idea what diabetics complain about! Simple! But that technology was not yet available and checking blood sugars was much more time consuming.

Mongolia was characterised by wide valleys and many, 

many hills. 

One day a storm hit us at our customary lunch break. The support crew drove one truck ahead to prepare lunch each day. On this day, the cold winds again started in late morning and by the time we got to the lunch truck the wind was ferocious. We sheltered in the truck but the support crew continued to prepare lunch of soup and pasta. One person did the cooking and the others held onto the cook tent to stop it blowing away! Just before lunch was served, the storm cleared and we ate under calm blue skies.

The next Mongolian blog will continue where this left off and describe another storm. This one much more severe with near arctic conditions.

 The joys of field research

I had returned from a year off study in which I’d bummed around Zimbabwe and Europe spending what little money I had and some of what I didn’t have. I’d largely recovered from major surgery and had as close a handle on my diabetic blood sugar control as was possible in the early 1980s. The treatment was one daily injection, and no blood test kits. This needed to be fortified by a stable lifestyle free of changes in mood, mental exertion and physical activity. I also lived several hundred kilometres from my diabetic specialist.  

But I was young and healthy and had started doing field research involving unpredictable levels of both physical and mental exertion. And a fair share of interesting events was usual when living alone in a game reserve; enough to cause blood sugars to behave randomly. 

The reserve showing the forest in the middle of the picture.

Copyright Adrian Armstrong. 

One such event happened when I was walking in a forest on a narrow path flanked by tall bracken. I was probably tired and inattentive but a slight movement caught my eye.  A black mamba reared up directly in front of me. Within striking distance. (Generally, I regard black mambas as within striking distance if they are closer than about 10 meters). But this one was, without question, definitely within real striking distance. I'd nearly trodden on it. 

I am unashamed to admit that I am terrified of black mambas. Highly venomous and aggressive they grow up to 2.5 metres. Surviving a bite is unlikely. More to the point, my perception of these killers, ready to sink their fangs into any human was instilled by experts. Herpetologist experts told me this when I needed to weigh live snakes and went to the local snake park for help. 

Behind the scenes in any snake park are many snakes that are not on display to the public. It was these animals that were weighed. A number of herpetologists crowded the lab going about their snakey work. My herpetologist selected a reptile, using tongs or by hand (dependent on the aggressiveness and toxicity), and carried it to the scale in a bag where I recorded its weight. The snake was returned to its cage. We worked for a few hours.

The last species to weigh were black mambas. Suddenly the procedure changed. "Ok, listen up everyone!" exclaimed my herpetologist loudly. "We are going to be carrying mambas to the scale. Stop what you are doing and step back. We don't want any mishaps!" We'd carried maybe 30 or 40 snakes that morning including puff adders and cobras but none had evoked a warning. My irrational fear of these animals was now officially rational - backed up by expert opinion.

Snake park where mambas were weighed. 

Somehow I'd ended up doing research in a reserve full of black mambas.  When I first arrived in the reserve, the ranger told me what to do if I got bitten. Do not exert yourself. Lie down in the shade. Get comfy. Loosen all tight clothing. Look up at the sky. And enjoy your last few moments! I lived in terror. 

Black mamba. Note the size. Copyright SANBI.

The mamba swayed slightly from side to side. Its head about waist high. Clearly annoyed at my intrusion. I recalled the snake park warning. Somehow my brain went into survival mode. I was unlikely to move quicker than the mamba could strike. So flight was out of the question and I had no intention of fighting this thing! I stayed still. Deathly still. 

It seemed were we there for hours. Eyeball to eyeball. Its tongue flicked (the damn thing is tasting me I thought!). My legs trembled. After an age, the snake moved slightly. It lowered its head a tad. Its head was now closer to me, to my bare, trembling thighs. Still I stood. Very gradually, it lowered the top of its body to the ground and disappeared into the bracken. I was left with one thought in my head; Where the hell is it? Then I turned and ran. 

But this experience was not over yet. I'd been checking some traps and just beyond where I'd seen the snake were traps that I could not leave unchecked. I'd have to retrace my steps past where I'd seen the snake. Nervously, I dragged myself back along that terrifying path. Visibility was restricted to the narrow, dusty path, the bracken preventing me from seeing anything on either side. I imagined reptilian eyes on my legs. Where is it?  

The fact I'm writing this means that I didn't encounter that snake again that day. And fortunately the traps were empty.  I hurried back to camp and made a pot of tea, spilling much of it as I slowly counted my blessings. I have no idea how my blood sugar reacted. Terror took priority that day!  

Ant's snakey motto: It's better to see a snake before it sees you.

 Ant's blog: diabetes and travel. 

After six years at university the need to travel again raised it's head (actually, the travel head had been lifting for a few years)! In early 1983 my mate and I decided to hitch around the world. Plans were planned, sleeping bags and rucksacks bought, all funded by selling everything that we couldn't squeeze into a rucksack. 

The Smoke that Thunders, Victoria Falls

The original idea was to hitch through Africa to London and then, who knew? For various reasons, the Africa trip was cancelled and replaced with a tour of Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia) about a year after a horrific guerrilla war ended. The game reserves were empty of tourists and the rangers were more than happy to invite us on their patrols. We spent two months touring Victoria Falls, Matusadona, Rhodes Matopas, Gona-Re-Zhou, Hwange, Chimanimani, and Rhodes Matopas Game Reserves, often on patrol with rangers.

Matusadona Reserve, view from Lake Kariba.

That trip was followed by the trip to Europe. My mate would fly from Zimbabwe to London a week ahead of me travelling from Johannesburg. 

My Dad asked how I was going to manage diabetes care during the trip. That needed some thought. So I bought a small flask (remember insulin needed to be kept in a fridge and in the 80s there was no rucksack-sized fridges). I also went for a diabetes check up with my doctor, just to make sure. But it would be a formality, I felt fine, strong in fact. I was a wildlife biologist with an award-winning MSc about to embark on the trip of a life time. 

The next day I was in hospital. They found blood in my urine and that my urine drainage system was partly blocked. Quick biology lesson: you have two kidneys which filter blood and pass waste material (urine) down a pair of ureters into the bladder. The bladder stores urine until it is voided from the body via a tube, the urethra. My left ureter was blocked! Urine was backing up into the left kidney. A catastrophic situation and not ideal for hitch-hiking around Europe. In fact the doctors felt that it was not ideal for anywhere except the operating theatre which is where I found myself 12 hours later.

Urinary tract. Copyright US govt Terese Winslow.

Why? What? We didn't use WTF in those days but that would have been appropriate indeed. It transpired that as I had spent a lot of time outdoors, I had been in several rivers and pools where there is a parasitic disease called bilharzia. Like all parasites it goes through a number of development stages (think butterfly: egg to caterpillar to chrysalis to adult). In bilharzia the stages occur first in aquatic snails and then mammals. At each stage the number of individuals increases dramatically and a single egg leads to the final stage called cercaria which produces hundreds of thousands of eggs. This is a common parasitic strategy to ensure infection of unsuspecting hosts (like wildlife biologists). It only needs one cercarium to enter the body through a tiny nick in the skin. Apparently I had one of these cercaria together with a welcoming nick and the bugger found its way to my left ureter, where, as all good parasites are wont to do, attached itself and started producing large numbers of eggs. The blood in the urine was indicative of a ureter blocked with thousands of tiny eggs. 

I awoke in intensive care after four hours of surgery feeling warm, content and full of a cocktail of drugs. I'd been an experiment. My diseased ureter had been totally removed, my bladder opened and a sliver of bladder tissue converted to a new designer ureter. The bladder was stitched up, the sliver tubified and stitched up and the end attached to the gaping hole in the kidney. The surgeons gained access to all this plumbing via an incision across my lower abdomen through several layers of muscle. There was talk of over 1,000 stitches. Never before had this operation been tried and certainly not on a diabetic, prone to infection. To put it mildly, there was a hint of risk!

I was in hospital for three weeks accompanied by drains into my gut cavity, catheters, drips,  and a host of bloody bags attached to a stand which I painfully staggered around with. I was on bilharzia treatment, antibiotics, all fuelled by soup. The pain was incredible.

Talking of pain, the nurses were great and kept me going with their jokes and comradery. I was really looking forward to the time when the catheter drain from my bladder was to be removed. One dryly said "It will feel like peeing razor blades! We'll listen for the screams and give you extra pain killers". What a bunch!

After three weeks all the drains, catheters, plugs and drips were removed and I was discharged on 13 April. Blood sugars all over the place and very difficult to control using one daily morning injection only. Temporarily, I used an additional single dose of 4 units of Actrapid to bring the high sugars down.

Looking smug. The last day in hospital!

I went to airport on 28 May to start trip to Europe. Very excited! At last! At the departure lounge, with rucksack on my back, I suffered a major hypo (low blood sugar causing confusion) and went into a coma. I awoke in a hospital thinking I was in Europe and a bit more than a tad confused. The effects of the surgery had only just started impacting my blood sugar control. 

I discharged myself from the hospital the next day (I had Europe visit) and went straight to organise another ticket. Two days later I was in London with my mates from university. I could not believe I was finally there! 

I'd never been on a hovercraft and crossed the channel on this one

I spent eight months travelling through Europe with a devil may care attitude. Get on the road, get a lift, if it dropped us at a place we liked, stay there until we wanted to move on. When I ran out of insulin I bought it locally. Unfortunately, in Europe insulin strength was 40 units per ml and I was using 80 units. With this concentration my daily dose exceeded the volume of the glass syringe and I needed two injections. But needles were limited so I had to reuse  needles with very basic sterilisation (small vial of alcohol!). Sterilisation in its broadest meaning. 

The small flask filled with water that I used to keep the insulin cool, worked well enough to keep my blood sugars vaguely under control. I know they were vaguely in target because I had bought an early prototype glucometer that used a finger prick of blood to measure blood sugar. This was about the size of a small shoe box and the reagent strips were largely unobtainable in Europe so I had to eke them out - about one test every four or five days perhaps. When they ran out the damn thing became a burden in an increasingly heavy rucksack. 

The trip was amazing. It restored my faith in people who were kind and generous. Except one lot of lads who picked us up. They were stoned out of their minds and screamed at us to put our rucksacks against the car doors so that we couldn't escape! We managed to make a break at a traffic light when they appeared to forget we were in the car. 

 St Marie aux Manes, Alsace, France

On another occasion we got a lift on an autobahn. Usually hitch-hiking is slow. What with waiting for a lift and then taking several lifts to get to your destination. Not this time. We were picked up by a guy driving a Mercedes who took us straight to Munich, at 220km/h! We weren't sure if he was a component driver or an idiot but we arrived several hours ahead of our schedule in one piece!  These are the chances you take when hitch-hiking. 

Portofino, Italy. No cars allowed. We got there by train.

Beautiful paintings on houses in Austria

I arrived back in South Africa intact, full of amazing experiences and having suffered only two comas requiring stays in hospital early in the trip. My flask type fridge worked as did conversion to lower strength insulin, irregular blood sugar checks and irregular food. By the end of the trip I had largely got my blood sugars under control and was looking forward to my next adventure; several years of doing research in the bush on my own. And yes, comas once again raised their annoying head as did more stitches and a few face to face encounters with Africa's most deadly snake, the black mamba.