CHAPTER 19
I’m just weary to my bones. Still, you don’t expect to be bright and bon vivant so far away from home, so far away from home. – “American Tune” by Paul Simon (1973)
After returning to Lusaka, we checked into the same youth hostel we stayed in the last time we were there. I went back to the editor of the local newspaper to see if I could make some extra cash writing stories for him. I knew that I had some great material, but unfortunately the guy still wasn’t willing to pay me enough to make it worthwhile.
With no potential income in sight and only a couple hundred dollars to my name, I was getting more desperate by the day. I was physically ill, about to become a fugitive from American law, and had no place to call home. Leaving Africa and going to David’s house in Dublin seemed like the only option.
As we made our way back through Tanzania, Ted and I spent a night with Rolf and Marta in Dar es Salaam. Although they were sorry to hear that our plans had been dashed at the Rhodesian border, they certainly weren’t surprised.
We retraced our route up the coast through Mombasa. Luckily, this time, there was no monsoon and the condition of the roads had greatly improved. Once back in Nairobi, we checked into the sleazy, but dirt-cheap youth hostel. I wanted to stay at the Hilton again, but we simply didn’t have enough money.
After pricing the flights to London, we were slightly short of the amount we needed. Our only choice was to sell everything we owned, including the tent, cooking stove, and camera I had found in Uganda. Within two days, we’d sold all of it to people we had met at the hostel and were able to afford two plane tickets to England.
Ted and I spent the last night in Nairobi getting drunk, celebrating our final evening on the continent, and reminiscing about the incredible adventures we’d had in Africa. It felt like years since we had met up in Tunisia and hitchhiked across the Libyan desert into Egypt.
We had taken a once-in-a-lifetime journey that few people would ever experience. We’d stayed in Cairo, spent a night on top of the pyramids, and went up the Nile River into some of the most remote parts of Africa. We met people in Sudan and Uganda that we would never forget. We remembered the day that we first saw Mt. Kilimanjaro, and savored the unforgettable sight and sound of Victoria Falls. And, of course, there were the Irish missionaries who rescued us from the road in Zambia. Whatever happened from this time on, I had a lifetime of memories that would forever change me.
“We scoured London for a place to buy cheap clothes so we wouldn’t freeze to death.”
On the morning we headed for the Nairobi airport, Ted and I had exactly nine dollars and the clothes on our backs. All of our meager possessions fit into my small shaving kit. We were dirty, had long scraggly hair, disheveled beards, no luggage, and no money. When we landed at Heathrow Airport, the immigration authorities refused to let us enter the country.
The officials treated us as if we were the weirdest and most suspicious characters they had ever come across. I made up a credible story about being robbed of our possessions and cash at gunpoint in Kenya. Ted showed them a letter from David which verified that he was expecting us in Dublin. When we told the authorities that we were not staying in England, that convinced them to let us in.
After nearly a year of dealing with hassles, there wasn’t much that intimidated me anymore. I realized that I could accomplish almost anything I set my mind to. I had talked my way into places like Uganda. I had also talked my way out of places like Uganda. Except for the part about not making it to South Africa, things seemed to usually work out.
The next problem we faced was that we’d forgotten how cold England was in late October. Having come from Africa, we were not prepared for the weather we experienced as soon as we walked out of the airport. I was wearing a cotton long sleeve shirt, no jacket, and the leather pants that I bought in the Canary Islands. Ted was in the same boat. In need of warmer clothes, we scoured London for a place to buy cheap clothes so we wouldn’t freeze to death.
After a difficult search, we found the perfect solution: a cross between a thrift shop and an Army Navy surplus store. With our remaining money, Ted and I bought long, heavy, military-style coats. We looked ridiculous.
With no idea how we were going to pay for the ferry to Ireland, we hitchhiked out of London and headed for Dublin. Although it was a world away from the oppressive heat of Africa, once again, we found ourselves traveling under harsh weather conditions.
My health was getting worse. In addition to my violent stomach cramps and diarrhea, I was now itching like crazy in my pubic area, and it was driving me mad. Something was definitely wrong, and I couldn’t wait to get to Dublin to see a doctor.
Since we couldn’t afford a hotel and no longer had our camping supplies, we hitchhiked straight through the night. After grabbing quick naps in the various vehicles that picked us up, we ended up sleeping until dawn in Birmingham’s large bus station.
“After a while, he seemed to realize that it was unlikely we were making up such fantastic stories.”
Tired, hungry, and completely broke, Ted and I arrived in Wales. As we stood hitchhiking in the bitter weather, the road delivered us another perfectly timed gift. A small sports car with a distinguished looking gentleman at the wheel screeched to a stop in front of us. The man inside rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and tried to size us up.
“Hi there,” he said in a friendly voice. “Where might you fellows be headed?”
“We’ve just come from Africa,” Ted answered, “and we’re trying to get to Dublin.”
“Africa! Well, how about that! My name’s Wilson, and, uh, I’ve been drinking a bit,” he slurred.
He showed us the pint of whiskey he was holding between his legs and smiled sheepishly.
“But hop in if you’d like,” he continued, “and I’ll give you a lift.”
Ted and I looked at each other and nodded in agreement. This was our kind of guy! We folded our six-foot frames into the tiny car and off we went.
Wilson was about 60 years old with a goatee that made me think he looked a little like Sigmund Freud. He was nicely dressed in a tweed suit and tie and had a twinkle in his eye. But he was definitely rumpled and clearly a drunk.
During the ride, we learned that he was a local doctor and today was his day off. He asked if one of us would be willing to drive, and Ted agreed to get behind the wheel. With Wilson in the passenger seat and me crunched in the back, we cruised through the beautiful Welsh countryside while passing around his bottle of whiskey.
Our inebriated driver was all ears as we regaled him with tales from the wilds of Africa. As we blew his mind with one unbelievable story after another, he listened in astonishment. At first, I don’t think he believed a word we were telling him. But after a while, he seemed to realize that it was unlikely we were making up such fantastic stories.
At one bend in the road, Wilson directed Ted to pull into one of his favorite pubs, and he bought us all the food and drinks we could devour. Over our meal, I learned that his full name was Reginald Wilson Thornburg, and he was a psychologist in the town of Rhosneigr. By the time we got back in the car, we were all pretty loaded.
As we drove away from the pub, he abruptly announced, “Ahh, what the hell! I’m going to Dublin with you!”
“Wow,” I thought. “What good luck!”
The problem of paying for passage to Dublin was solved; Wilson was footing the bill.
First, we had to stop at his house, so he could pick up some supplies and tell his wife where he was going. He warned us to stay in the car because he thought the conversation might not go so well.
We pulled up to a tidy cottage in a leafy, affluent neighborhood. Wilson staggered inside to inform his wife that he was going on a road trip with two ne’er-do-wells that he’d just picked up on the highway – or something to that effect.
Moments after he entered, we heard a raucous argument coming from the house followed by the crash of breaking glass. Wilson calmly emerged, and the door slammed behind him. With a small suitcase in hand, he strolled toward the car.
“OK, boys. Let’s go!” he ordered as he got into the passenger seat.
For the first five minutes, he didn’t say a word. But then he was back to his old self, cracking jokes about how boring his life was compared to ours. As we drove toward the ferry, he never mentioned the quarrel with his wife. All he wanted was to hear about our adventures in Africa. He loved our stories; we loved his reckless attitude.
When we got to the ferry terminal, Wilson bought three tickets for the evening boat to Dublin. We drank at the nearest pub until it was time to board. As we crossed the Irish Sea, he bought us endless food and drinks. Wilson was not only someone we needed to meet, he was also a hell of a lot of fun to hang out with.
“Despite being embarrassed and disgusted, I felt a lot better.”
We arrived at the dock in Dublin the following morning, and the three of us hopped into a cab toward the city center. The driver recommended a pub where we could get some food and a morning Guinness. I was surprised to see that the place was packed with old guys having their breakfast pint. Naturally, we joined them.
After we had our fill, we stumbled out, got another cab, and headed to David O’Connor’s house on North Circular Road. Ted and I slid out of the car and told Wilson that we’d see him that night to have more fun in Dublin.
“Man, Wilson,” I said. “I wish you’d been in Africa with us. We would have had a blast. You’re one of the coolest guys we’ve ever met! We’ll see you tonight. Get some rest.”
“Yeah, wait until you meet our friend, David!” Ted called out as Wilson’s cab pulled away from the curb.
“OK, boys!” he yelled out the window, “I’ll see you later. Thanks for a great time!”
That was the last we ever saw of Wilson. He probably went somewhere, slept it off, sobered up, and went back home to his furious wife.
For the next two weeks, we slept in David O’Connor’s living room. I learned that there was no realistic chance of finding work in Ireland because unemployment was at record-high levels. David implied that we weren’t going to be able to stay at his house much longer. Ted and I both called our families and asked for money to fly home.
I wrote a long letter to the Selective Service telling them that I was returning to America, and that I intended to appeal the ruling on my conscientious objector status. I figured that once I got home, I could make a better case for myself. Maybe I could gather enough testimonials from family members and friends who would vouch for my religious objection to war, even if it wasn’t entirely true. It was a long shot, but it seemed like my best chance to avoid breaking the law or being drafted.
While in Dublin, I bought some antidiarrheal medication, which helped me feel a lot better. I also got to the bottom of the mystery of the intense itching in my pubic area. I had contracted a bad case of the crabs! David’s uncle, Bill, found a bunch of them on the couch where I’d slept. I’d heard of crabs, but couldn’t figure out how I got them. After mulling over the possibilities, I concluded that I must have picked them up at Nairobi’s sleazy youth hostel.
Bill made me take a hot bath, and he liberally sprinkled DDT powder into the water. After a good soaking, dozens of dead crabs floated to the top. Despite being embarrassed and disgusted, I felt a lot better.
Returning to Ireland was a strange ending to my past year’s journey. The one positive note was that David was in much better spirits than when I had last seen him. He was even taking classes at the university. Catching up with him under better circumstances was refreshing, but it was painfully bittersweet when it came time for me to leave.
With my fate being so uncertain, the prospect of returning home was depressing. I dreaded having to face my draft board. Realistically, I understood that I had little hope of being declared a conscientious objector. I had painted myself into a corner and was scared shitless. My future was one huge question mark. When I reflected on the trip, I wondered if it had been worth it. In the long run, what did it really mean? What had I gained other than a great travel adventure? Hadn’t I only managed to delay the inevitable?
As the plane took off from Dublin, and I watched Ireland disappear on the horizon, I was overcome by sadness. I had a miserable suspicion that I had done the wrong thing. If I’d chosen to move to Canada, at least I would have had a year-long head start on establishing residency. I truly feared that my trip to Africa had been an enormous waste of time.
