Ripcord Adventure Journal 2.1

Volume 2 | Number 1 | March 2016 

RAJ 2.1

Image (c) Kate Leeming 

Backyard kitchen. It is what goes on 

within its walls that keeps Djenné alive.

A Letter from the Editor 

Welcome to Ripcord Adventure Journal. 

This, our fifth issue of Ripcord Adventure Journal has been quite a 

while in gestation, but I feel the labour has been worth it and our 

Journal is gradually developing its own unique character. 

Where do we begin? A fast track literally, to Germany where a 

sports car and our journalist are tested to the limits and left begging 

for more. Following the exploits of a legendary aviator from 

continent to continent, our Journal proceeds to venture across Mali, 

cycling the route to a fabled city of gold and encountering a festival 

of mud which annually repairs what must be one of the "newest" 

old buildings in the world. 

Our next journey explores the concept of adventure on board a 

luxury cruise ship as it rounds the infamous Horn, can Shangri-la 

really exist at sea? This leads us thoughtfully to the colourful 

Monlam Cham festival of Tibet as it is explored by two friends in 

search of Marco Polo and inner calm, we then journey forward to 

an encounter with a personal hero, visit eleven architectural gems on 

the road less traveled and complete our whirlwind travels in the land 

of the Midnight Sun. 

We aim to be the home of authentic, adventurous travel, which 

serves as a starting point for personal reflection, study and new 

journeys. 

On behalf of the editorial, writing and design team I wish to thank 

our sponsors Redpoint Resolutions (particularly Thomas 

Bochnowski, Ted Muhlner and Martha Marin), the World Explorers 

Bureau USA (Charlotte Baker-Weinert) for their continued support. 

Tim Lavery 

General Editor, Ripcord Adventure Journal 

www.ripcordadventurejournal.com

Ripcord Adventure Journal Copyright © March 2016 by Redpoint 

Resolutions & World Explorers Bureau. All articles and images 

Copyright © 2016 of the respective Authors and photographers. 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, 

distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including 

photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical 

methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, 

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews 

and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. 

For permission requests, general enquiries or sponsorship 

opportunities, contact the publisher: 

Ripcord Adventure Journal: info@ripcordadventurejournal.com 

Supporting the following Organisation

"Adventures do occur, but not punctually." 

E.M. Forster 

"A Passage to India"

RIPCORD 

ADVENTURE 

JOURNAL 

2.1 

Editorial Team 

Tim Lavery 

Shane Dallas 

John W. Lavery 

Sophie Ibbotson 

Paul Devaney 

Featuring 

Jim Clash 

Kate Leeming 

Tor Torkildson 

Lindie Naughton 

Francis O'Donnell 

Siffy Torkildson 

Caroline Stone 

Publishers 

Redpoint Resolutions 

& World Explorers 

Bureau 

WWW.RIPCORDADVENTUREJOURNAL.COM

Contents 

Guest Editorial: 

Pedal to the metal at one-third the 

speed of sound 

Jim Clash 

Lady Icarus 


Mali's lifeline: Ségou to Timbuktu 

Kate Leeming 

Shangri-la at sea 


Monlam Cham Festival 


Encounters: Lonnie Dupre 


Images from the road less traveled 

Shane Dallas 

Ibn Fadlan and the midnight sun 


Book review: White Lightning: How 

the Scots and Irish created a 

Canadian Nation 

Contributors and credits 

2 

8 

18 

34 

48 

62 

66 

76 

82 

86 

Image opposite: Entrance to the Djenné Library. 

Photo by Kate Leeming 

1

Guest 

Editorial 

Pedal to the metal at onethird 

the speed of sound 

2 

Jim Clash 

Image: Jim Clash driving the Bugatti Veyron at 253 mph at Ehra- 

Lessien, the secretive Volkswagen test complex near Wolfsburg, 

Germany

3

Guest Editorial: Pedal to the metal at one-third the speed of sound 

Jim Clash 

My goal was simple: To take the world's fastest production car, the 

Bugatti Veyron, to its top speed north of 250 mph. After much 

planning with the Bugatti staff, I finally was to get my chance. 

I’ve driven a formula Indy racecar, RUF Porsches, Lamborghinis, 

Ferraris and Mercedes above 200 mph, without incident, in my 

career as an adventure journalist. But 200 is one thing; 250 mph is an 

entirely different, and mind-blowing, proposition. At that speed, 

you travel the length of one and a quarter soccer fields per second. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

Even if you secure the use of a Veyron, which retails for around $2.5 

million, it is difficult to try this because of the multiple miles 

required to reach top speed. Most private tracks aren’t big enough. 

The 7.8-mile circular Nard proving ground in southern Italy is too 

bumpy, too windy and has banking that scrubs precious miles per 

hour. The German Autobahn, without speed limits on large chunks, 

doesn’t have a length of unobstructed straight road long enough to 

safely attain 250 mph unless – gulp – you try at night, when there’s 

no traffic. 

American superspeedways such as Indianapolis and Talladega, 

where race cars routinely surpass 200 mph, are less than three miles 

in length, with straightaways nowhere near long enough for the 

Veyron to reach 250 mph. Even if they were, their operators 

probably wouldn’t be interested in taking a chance on potential 

lawsuits from a fatal crash. Formula Indy cars and stock cars are 

built to safeguard drivers in a high-speed collision; a production 

sports car like the Veyron, no matter how well built, is not. 

I met the Bugatti staff at Ehra-Lessien, the secretive Volkswagen test 

complex near Wolfsburg, Germany. It is not only big – 13 miles 

around – but highly banked in the corners. Most important, Ehra is 

the only track that Bugatti uses for top-speed tests. A support crew 

of a dozen was on hand, including in-house racer Pierre-Henri 

Raphanel. 

The weather forecast for Ehra the morning of my test was 

4


Jim Clash 

foreboding. You need a dry track to run top speed, and showers 

were predicted. When I looked out the window of my hotel, 

Wolfsburg’s Ritz-Carlton, at 6:30 a.m., the sky was overcast, but 

there was no wind – and no precipitation – yet. 

Once at Ehra, I signed a number of liability release forms, was 

briefed on track procedure and given a fitted driving suit including 

fireproof long underwear, shoes, gloves and a helmet. All of the 

paraphernalia looked impressive and made for nice pictures, but we 

all knew that if anything catastrophic happened, none of it would 

do me much good! 

After a few practice laps, accompanied by Raphanel and reaching no 

more than 185 mph, I was ready for my big test. The clouds hung 

heavy, but still there was no rain. 

I climbed into the white supercar alone; there would be nobody in 

the passenger seat for the top-speed run. This unsettled me. For past 

200-mph tests (except in the formula Indy car), I had a pro along for 

the ride. But at 250 mph, the risk was too great to unnecessarily 

expose another person. 

Complicating matters, I was to travel clockwise around the track, 

unusual for me. On ovals in the U.S., the preferred direction of 

travel is counterclockwise. That may not seem like a big deal, but 

when you try something this extreme, every little variation adds to 

your nervousness – especially when you’re trying to stay calm. 

I strapped on my helmet and buckled in. A slight fog had gathered 

on my glasses from heavy breathing and the humidity. As I inserted 

a special key to put the Veyron into top-speed mode – lowering the 

wing and dropping the body to within a couple inches of the asphalt 

– Raphanel reviewed the procedure we had just practiced. I needed 

to paddle-shift up to seventh gear at 125 mph, en route to the north 

corner, set the cruise control, then make my way into the outside 

lane. 

5


Jim Clash 

In the corner, I would perform a series of downshifts at cones 

placed strategically on the track, still maintaining 125 mph. Once in 

fourth gear, I would wait for two cones near the end of the corner 

and, once there, floor it and hang on while the transmission 

automatically shifted back up to seventh. 

To say I felt anxious at this point is an understatement. But part of 

the experience is exactly that feeling – that of the unknown. 

Exploration is curiosity in action. What would 250 mph feel like 

compared with, say, 200? How would the Bugatti handle, or for that 

matter, how would I handle it? 



Once I gave it full throttle, the car lurched like a pent-up racehorse. 

The steering, smooth up to that point, became stiff; I had to muscle 

it to get onto the main straightaway and into the center of three 

lanes. Once I did, everything smoothed out quickly. 

After a few seconds, I glanced at the speedometer and, shockingly, it 

already was edging above 200 mph. Wow. I kept my eyes fixed on 

what seemed to be a narrowing road ahead and, after some more 

seconds, glanced down again. 240 mph. I’d never been anywhere 

near that speed in a car in my life, but this thing was somehow still 

accelerating! 

A kind of tunnel vision took over. I stared so intently at the road 

that nothing registered peripherally. For an instant, I thought about 

what would happen if one of the tires blew – or if an animal bolted 

in front of me from the surrounding woods. There was a rumor that 

the Germans had been hunting at the track during the days 

preceding my arrival, to reduce that very possibility. Earlier, I’d 

thought this was funny. Now, at 250 mph, it suddenly wasn’t. 

Up ahead, I saw the overpass and south parking lot where the 

photographers and the Bugatti crew were. I knew I must be near top 

speed, burning fuel at the rate of a gallon every 2.3 miles. But I 

didn’t dare look again at the speedometer, just kept my eyes fixed 

forward. The car was incredibly stable, and it was relatively quiet 

Image opposite: Jim Clash in the Bugatti Veyron prior to his 253mph test lap. 

6


Jim Clash 

inside – like driving in a silent movie speeded up ridiculously. I had 

to suspend my disbelief that I was traveling so fast in such a 

surprisingly peaceful cockpit. 

After flashing by the parking area, I kept my foot on it for a few 

more seconds to enjoy the sensation and then, as instructed, backed 

off the throttle and tapped the brakes to take the Veyron out of topspeed 

mode. The wing came up, the car slowed and I felt, well, 

numb. I loosened my death grip on the steering wheel. 

Back in the parking area, everyone was smiles. As I exited the car, 

Raphanel hugged me. My top speed was determined to be 407.5 kph 

– or 253.2 mph. Like an excited child, I asked the crew members to 

sign my driving suit. 

This March at the Geneva Auto Show, Bugatti announced its latest 

super-car – the “Chiron.” With a top speed north of 260 mph, the 

1,500-hp machine will be the world’s new fastest production car 

when it is available in the fall. It goes without saying I want to test 

that monster as well! 

7

Lady Icarus 

The life of Aviator 

Lady Mary Heath 


8 

8

Lady Icarus: The life of Aviator Lady Mary Heath 


On a chilly May afternoon in 1928, three small planes came into 

view above Croydon Aerodrome in south London. Two were DH 

Moths, but the focus of attention was the Avro Avian biplane made 

of timber, wire and cloth they were escorting. 

Soon the Avro's pilot was visible in the open cockpit and, in an 

exuberant greeting, looped-the-loop before coming in for a perfect 

landing. No sooner had the plane taxied to a halt than it was 

surrounded by hundreds of men and women, including journalists, 

photographers and dignitaries, who had waited hours for this 

occasion. 

After a few moments, a tall figure wrapped in a fur coat and wearing 

a cloche hat stepped carefully from the cockpit in her high-heeled 

shoes. Lady Mary Heath had just flown the final leg of a gruelling 

9,000-mile journey from Cape Town. It had taken her three long 

months. 

From the moment she set off from Cape Town, Lady Mary had 

known that she could not afford to make mistakes: “I realised I 

would have many more difficulties to face than the ordinary male 

pilot, especially in the event of a forced landing in jungle or swamp, 

or among hostile natives.” 

With only the most elementary of maps available, the logistics of 

flying over unknown, uncharted and possibly hostile territory 

would have deterred most pilots, male or female. After she set off, 

the authorities in the various countries repeatedly placed obstacles 

in her way. She rarely flew more than 1,600 kilometres without 

confronting officials determined to keep her on the ground. 

Before she set off, the South African newspapers had reported on 

her preparations. “I am taking with me one set of clothes, two 

changes of blouse and a pair of mosquito boots for when I have to 

spend a night at a landing place,” she told them. 

9



To protect her further, she would carry a long length of mosquito 

netting: “By draping the netting over the cockpit, I will have a 

sleeping place.” Later she revealed that “in case or for fear,” she also 

carried a tube of morphine: ‘It occurred to me before I started that I 

might crash in one of Africa’s dark forests and have my leg broken 

or something worse. I believe all aviators make some such 

provision.’ 

For keeping the aeroplane in tune, she would carry a set of tools, 

including a hacksaw, a jack-knife and plenty of spare parts. She 

expected to spend most of her non-flying time overhauling the 

engine and “clearing the tappets” believing that prevention was 

better than cure. 



From Sir Julius Jeppe, of the Rand Daily Mail, she had received the 

gift of a gun for her protection; she might also use it to kill game. 

She would carry a few luxuries: ‘My luggage in addition will include 

some pounds of chocolate, a tennis racquet and an evening dress.’ 

She also planned to carry a Bible and a few novels. 

Lady Mary was expected to fly between 480 and 640 kilometres at a 

time and had already negotiated the first lap of her journey when 

she flew from Cape Town to Johannesburg, collecting over £1,000 

for several light-aeroplane clubs by giving “flips” and helping with 

flying days. 

In one respect, she had no problems. Fearing that she would not 

find fuel, she negotiated with Sir Charles Wakefield, founder of 

Castrol Oils, to have a supply of fuel placed at various points along 

the way. This proved an unnecessary precaution, since motor spirit 

was available all over Africa for about 5s 6d (30 cent) per gallon. 

After landing at Johannesburg, she had her plane adapted, making 

room for a second fuel tank in the passenger seat. At last, it was time 

to leave South Africa. On the morning of 25 February 1928, the 

overloaded Avian wobbled unsteadily into the air from Robert’s 

Fields, after taking 150 metres to lift off. For the 640 kilometres trip 

10

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 



to Bulawayo, Lady Mary was carrying 191 litres of fuel and Sir 

Pierre van Rynveld, the pioneer of South African aviation, who 

accompanied her for the first hour, had bet her that she wouldn’t get 

off the ground. She proved him wrong. 

Her trip was still publicly linked with a motor expedition from the 

Cape to Cairo, which earlier that week had managed to cross the 

Limpopo river only with the help of fourteen donkeys. ‘In contrast 

to the days of weary travel which the land expedition spent in their 

journey to Bulawayo, Lady Heath, who came to Johannesburg last 

evening to say good-bye to many friends in the Rand, speaks gaily 

of being in Bulawayo by noon today,’ reported the Rand Daily 

Mail. 

The distance from Cape Town to Croydon in South London is 

between 12,800 and 14,400 kilometres. Lady Mary would fly about 

16,000 kilometres, like the motor expedition deviating from the 

direct route to visit Nairobi and going the long way along the 

North African coast because of her fear of flying over water. She 

had told her husband that the journey would take three weeks. As it 

turned out, she did not get back to England for much longer, 

enjoying the parties in her honour and the chances to play tennis or 

even hunt. 

She was exhilarated to be in the air after all the “vicissitudes” and 

reckoned the first day out of Pretoria ranked second only to her 

first solo flight as the best adventure of her life. Once on her own, 

she was entranced by a breath-taking vista of craggy hills, fleecy 

clouds, and settlements of tiny houses. It was warm and bright and 

she was wearing just her flying helmet, with her head and neck 

unprotected from the blazing equatorial sun. Six hours into her 

flight, she had passed the meandering Limpopo and was soon flying 

over the great quartz hills of Matobo in Zimbabwe, then called 

Southern Rhodesia, where Sir Cecil Rhodes, the British explorer 

who had done so much to open up Africa, lay buried. 

Thinking idly of how unpleasant it would be to crash land, she 

11



became aware of growing pain in her head, neck and shoulders. 

Having suffered from sunstroke twice before, she knew the signs. 

Ominously, in her most recent experience, she had passed out, not 

an experience she wished to repeat especially when flying several 

hundred metres above hard, unforgiving ground. Desperately, she 

twisted and turned in her tiny seat, trying unsuccessfully to retrieve 

the special topee, or pith helmet, packed in the back locker of her 

machine. When the pain in her head and neck got worse and she 

started to see black blobs dancing in front of her eyes, she pulled off 

part of her underclothing and wrapped it around her head and 

shoulders. 


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

With the black blobs turning into waving black feathers, she saw 

Fort Usher straight ahead. The last thing she remembered was 

aiming the plane north-east to some clear ground. When she 

recovered consciousness, she found herself under some thorn 

bushes with three native girls “in various stages of scanty undress, 

sitting back on their haunches and laughing at me.” 

They had removed her fur coat and placed it under her, then steeped 

two of her handkerchiefs in milk and put them on her head. Her 

hair was clotted with milk and there was a gourd of milk beside her. 

Leaning up woozily on one elbow, she was relieved to see that her 

plane was intact although one wing was drooping. With the help of 

the girls, who seemed to understand Swahili, although this was not 

their language, she staggered to the plane to discover the time. She 

had been unconscious for about four hours. 

So little damaged was the machine that, had she been at all well, she 

could have flown it away. There was no chance of that: she could 

hardly see straight and the effort of walking to the plane made her 

sick again: 

“So I sat on the ground and told the girls to collect stones and earth 

for my sandbags to secure the machine for the night…They thought 

12



it a tremendous joke and in spite of feeling as ill as I did, I could not 

help seeing the amusing side of it too. A great silver bird comes out 

of the sky and lands beside their huts and a strange white woman is 

found in it unconscious, and flops to the ground even after she has 

come to!” 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

Lady Mary had landed or as she put it, the plane landed itself, since 

she remembered nothing of it just ten miles short of Bulawayo and 

her expertise as a pilot had undoubtedly saved her life, since she had 

headed the plane into the wind and not hit any of the trees or thorn 

bushes dotting the veldt. After helping her to their hut about a 

quarter of a mile away, one of her new friends, Makula, who spoke a 

little English, told Lady Mary that in her delirium she had written a 

note to be delivered to white people and had asked for milk. Of this 

she had absolutely no recollection and when she saw the note a few 

days later, she realised why no help had come: “It was a confused 

scrawl of what looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics and I was unable 

to read it myself!” 

Lying on her fur coat with a “tiny silver fitted dressing case which 

the Johannesburg Light Aeroplane had given me” as a pillow, Lady 

Mary realised she was in a harem hut and that the owner of the kraal 

had five wives. They looked after her in an entirely matter-of-fact 

way, feeding her gourds of milk and a whole boiled chicken, 

complete with innards: “At dusk, they lit the fire close to my head 

and, with their youngest children, undressed entirely and covered 

themselves with blankets.” The small, round hut was swarming with 

mosquitoes and flies and, although still in a state of coma, Lady 

Mary stirred occasionally because she had been badly bitten, despite 

covering herself with mosquito netting. 

The next morning, after Makula had washed her, a white woman, 

Mrs Pat Fletcher, was motoring past the encampment with her 

husband in search of grass for their cattle. To her astonishment, she 

found an emotional Lady Mary, still feeling dizzy and ill, though 

the pains in her head and back had eased off. She immediately 

13



bundled her into the car and drove back to their farm, where the 

patient “weeping like a kid” was put to bed. In the evening, Captain 

Douglas Mail of the Rhodesian Aviation Syndicate agreed to rescue 

Lady Mary’s machine. Reporting back, he told her that there was 

not too much damage, although the machine was bone dry of oil 

and “owing to a bend in the undercarriage fitting, the port forward 

flying wire was loose.” 

Her disappearance had made front-page headlines in the South 

African press. “The absence of any news in any of the newspapers 

published on Saturday night and Sunday morning of the arrival in 

Bulawayo of Lady Heath, who set out in her Avro Avian from 

Pretoria on Saturday morning, caused intense excitement throughout 

the union,” said the Rand Daily Mail. The newspaper had received 

hundreds of calls from concerned members of the public. Prominent 

members of the South African air force had been planning to start a 

search. 

They speculated that she might have been blown off course. Air 

force members had escorted her as far as Warmbaths, along a route 

that followed the railway line. From this point, she had left the 

railway and would have been relying entirely on compass bearings. 

There was a strong wind blowing from the northwest, which meant 

that she could have drifted several degrees to the east and been 

forced to land in an unknown part of the veldt. As it happens, she 

was not far off her course when forced to land. 

When it left Pretoria a day earlier, the Avro Avian was carrying 

enough petrol for over ten hours’ flying, the consumption of the 

engine being 20.4 litres per hour and the average cruising speed 128 

kph. Lady Mary had passed Warmbaths at 8.45 am and should have 

appeared in Bulawayo at 2pm or soon after. News that she was safe 

came though at 7.30pm the following day from the newspaper’s 

Bulawayo correspondent. After she had spent the night in a native 

hut, a party of motorists had discovered an exhausted Lady Heath 

earlier that day, he reported, adding that oil trouble appeared to 

have been the cause of the forced landing. 

14



The Avian was now in Bulawayo and, when she awoke from a long 

sleep, Lady Mary was flown there by Captain Mail in his own DH 

Moth and taken to Sister Rigby’s Maternity Home because all the 

nursing homes were full. In a bed with a tiny white cot at its foot, 

she slept for a further eighteen hours. A few days later, her 

temperature was back to normal. She could continue with her 

adventure. 

There was more drama to come – she was robbed in Nairobi and 

had to call on her friend Captain Dick Bentley to escort her over the 

notorious Sudd in the Sudan, where a local British office had been 

murdered. Bentley and his new wife Dorys were taking a leisurely 

trip back to London from the Cape in their DH Moth at around the 

same time. Bentley agreed to escort Lady Heath as far as Khartoum. 

In Khartoum, the trio met Lady Bailey, the other celebrated Irish 

aviator, who was travelling in the opposite direction and was also 

experiencing problems with the authorities. While Lady Heath flew 

on to Cairo, Bentley turned around and escorted Lady Bailey 

southwards. 

In Cairo, the authorities refused to give Lady Mary permission to 

fly over the Mediterranean and locked away her aeroplane at the 

Heliopolis aerodrome. In desperation, she telegraphed Mussolini 

asking for an Italian flying boat escort. As she flew along the north 

coast of Africa to rendezvous with the Italians at Sollum, she was 

shot at although she did not realise this until she landed at Tunis. 

There was more drama when one of the Italian seaplanes went 

missing; fortunately, it was found again and Lady Heath gave the 

captain a silver cigarette box in gratitude. 

Thanks to her fear of water, she slept little the night before taking 

off from Tunis for Sicily and devised her own version of a lifebelt: 

“I had obtained a couple of motor-cycle tyres, and having blown 

them up, had wrapped them round my waist as a life-belt if I came 

down in the sea.” This was a tale she was to relate many times, with 

the number of tyres increasingly from two to six over the years. 

15



To increase her chances of reaching land in case of trouble, she 

ascended as high as she could: “the higher I went the safer I felt.” 

As she reached 2,100 metres, the tyres burst with a loud pop in the 

thin air and she was left with shreds of rubber hanging around her 

neck: “My heart was thumping and bumping. The blue sea looked 

frightfully wet and deep. Shreds of red rubber may have looked 

decorative, bizarre. But they lacked buoyancy.” 

Flying even higher at three kilometres above the earth and with 

excellent visibility, she was able to see both Europe and Africa. 

Indeed, Europe was now within gliding range and knowing that 

while she could still crash, there was little possibility of her 

drowning, she could relax and enjoy the extraordinary views. 

Ahead, Mount Etna pierced the clouds, making a perfect landmark 

on the way to the aerodrome at Catania. 

After a few days in Rome, she then flew over France before finally 

making it back to England. 

“The last lap was, as the papers say, without incident, except for a 

storm in the Channel that blew me up to Deal. I was so annoyed by 

this, and so cold, that I landed at Lympne to have a cup of tea before 

going on to Croydon.” 

“I had not expected anyone to come out to Croydon to meet me, and 

I was so surprised and pleased to find two aeroplanes circling round 

me as I approached the aerodrome, that I could not help risking 

things a little and doing a loop over the aerodrome, although I had 

been warned that my tail might fall off if I did.” 

Her achievement, allied with considerable charm, turned her into 

one of the best-known women of her time – and probably the best 

known Irishwoman ever after a certain Countess Markievicz. But 

that’s a story for another day. 

16

"Adventure is a path. Real adventure – 

self-determined, self- motivated, often 

risky – forces you to have firsthand 

encounters with the world. The world the 

way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your 

body will collide with the earth and you 

will bear witness. In this way you will be 

compelled to grapple with the limitless 

kindness and bottomless cruelty of 

humankind – and perhaps realize that you 

yourself are capable of both. This will 

change you. Nothing will ever again be 

black-and-white." 

Mark Jenkins 

"The Ghost Road" 

17

Mali's Lifeline 

Ségou to Timbuktu 

Kate Leeming 

18 

Image: Stern of pinnace to which our pirogue was attached. The 

River Niger carves a life-sustaining path through the semi-desert 

Niafunké

19

Mali's Lifeline: Ségou to Timbuktu 

Kate Leeming 

Around the time I was developing and organising this expedition, I 

had acquired a taste for Ali Farka Touré’s music. He used a mix of 

traditional instruments such as a single-stringed violin, the njarka, 

and the ngoni, a Malian lute with more standard instruments like the 

guitar. The ambience of his music fired my imagination as to what it 

might be like to travel through his home territory, the realms of the 

River Niger between Ségou and Timbuktu. Ali Farka Touré is 

internationally known as the “King of the Saharan Blues”, a genre 

from which all blues music derive their origin – via the slave trade. 

The waters of the River Niger, the essence of Ali Farka Touré’s 

heartland, spring from the Fouta Djallon in Guinea, the same 

highlands as the Senegal and Gambia rivers originate in. West 

Africa’s largest river carves a 4200km path from the tropics through 

the savannah and Sahel, kissing the Sahara at Timbuktu before 

arching south through Niger, forming a border with Benin and 

finally through Nigeria to empty itself in the Atlantic Ocean. 

The largest portion of the river, crosses Mali, including what some 

cultures refer to as the Camel’s Hump. Just as the hump of a camel 

provides sustenance for the animal in times of hardship, the Camel’s 

Hump of the Niger River is a vital source of life for the twenty or so 

cultures living in its dry hinterland. And just as the camel itself is a 

mode of transport bringing trade and culture to desert regions, the 

Niger does the same. 

The unusual crescent shape of the river baffled European and North 

African geographers for some two millennia. They could not 

understand why the waters flowed north from its source, 240km 

from the Atlantic Ocean, to the desert before bending east at 

Timbuktu. Early explorers such as Ibn Battuta, who passed through 

Oualata on the way to the region, had the Niger drawn in as the 

Western Nile. The first Europeans who explored the African west 

coast thought it was connected to the Senegal River. It wasn’t until 

the early nineteenth century that Mungo Park solved the riddle of 

the river’s course (outside of local knowledge). 

20


Kate Leeming 

After his first expedition, park reported on the hospitable nature of 

the people of the Bambara Kingdom and was astonished at the 

opulence and extent of the cultivation he found everywhere. Ségou, 

the Bambara capital, had a population of around 30,000 at the time 

and the countryside around was beautiful, intersected on all sides by 

rivulets. A positive legacy of Park’s explorations was that he was 

one of the first Europeans to “humanise” Africans at a time when 

the overwhelming perception of them was one of savage, primitive 

creatures. Writings of his first expedition influenced thinking that 

would eventually lead to the abolition of the European slave trade. 

Almost 500 years earlier, during the height of the Mali Empire, Ibn 

Battuta wrote that he found the territory safe to travel through 

without fear of robbery or violence and that the Mande people of 

the same region were of a kind and gentle nature. 

We set off early from Ségou towards the ancient town of Djenné, 

passing through the regional centres of Bla and San. For the first 

time on the expedition I felt like we were starting to find a good 

rhythm and cover the distances to which I am accustomed. Even 

with a constant north-easterly wind we were clocking up 

130-140km consistently. Extended lunch breaks had literally been 

“eating” in to the daily distances, and this began to bug me. Initially 

we took longer breaks to avoid the heat of the day but now it was 

cooler (still up to mid-30s), we could make better use of the day. 

The main asphalt road we were following to Djenné skirts the Niger 

River floodplain. The terrain was so flat that perhaps the highest 

landmarks were the giant termite mounds! Waiting for the ferry to 

transport us across the Bani River, the Niger’s principal tributary, it 

was obvious that we were heading towards the country’s premier 

tourist attraction. Sellers crowded around their captive audience in 

the hope of flogging trinkets, jewellery, carvings, masks and 

clothing. They wanted to trade everything, the bicycles, my 

sunglasses, even the shirt off my back. We were to be travelling for 

the best part of a year, carrying only what we needed to continue 

our journey across Africa, so we declined all offers. 

21

22 

Image: Djenné mosque: one minaret had collapsed 

after seasonal rains

23


Kate Leeming 

Djenné, built on the floodplain between the Niger and Bani rivers at 

the southern end of the Inner Niger Delta, is Mali’s oldest town. 

“Modern” Djenné is a walled city, settled approximately one 

thousand years ago, but archaeological excavations indicate that the 

Iron Age civilisation at Djenné-jéno, a couple of kilometres from 

the city, was first settled around 200 BC. 

Often referred to as Timbuktu’s sister city, Djenné’s raison detre 

was its location at the head of an ancient Saharan trade route. 

Merchants would travel from the tropics of Guinea to trade gold for 

salt (and many other items) with those arriving from Timbuktu and 

beyond. Arabs brought their religion with them and Islam infused 

in to the melting pot of Djenné’s culture. The city became 

prosperous through trading with all corners of the vast Kingdom of 

Mali while avoiding being captured by the Kingdom of Mali’s 

armed forces (the military reportedly tried ninety-nine time to 

capture the city but to no avail). 



A dusty, winding thoroughfare led us past an unusual array of 

double-storey adobe residences towards the main attraction, the 

Grande Mosque, the world’s largest mud building. Our reason for 

making good time to Djenné was to arrive in readiness for the 

famous Monday market, where traders still travel from as far away 

as Bamako, Ségou and Mopti. We were all up early the following 

day, hoping to experience and capture the scenes as they evolved, 

however, we had not realised that the National Holiday on Saturday 

extended to Monday and the hoped-for bustling market never took 

place. All was not lost as our guide, Amadou, was able to show us 

around his town and the mosque, enlightening us about its 

colourful history. 

The first mosque was built in 1240 by the sultan Koi Kunboro, who 

converted to Islam and turned his palace into a place of worship. By 

the mid-nineteenth century the palace had deteriorated beyond 

saving (mud buildings need constant maintenance). The Grande, or 

Kunboro Mosque as it is often called, was rebuilt in 1906 in the 

24


Kate Leeming 

same architectural style as the earlier one. 



The Grande Mosque, which sits on an enormous raised plinth of 

dried mud bricks, is constantly being renovated. During recent 

floods, one of the three minarets of the front façade collapsed and 

preparations were underway for its repair. Before the start of the 

Wet Season, the whole community gathers together to repair the 

walls, adding a layer of fine mud render where required. Amadou 

told us that this has become an annual festival with a real carnival 

style atmosphere. 

Year after year of adding to the thickness of the walls eventually 

means they become too thick, absorb too much water after the rains 

and the added weight causes collapses in places. So, while some of 

the building is having mud added, other parts are having their walls 

reduced. Mud for the render is mixed with rice husks to make a 

smooth surface, while mud for the core walls, usually about 

30-40cm thick, is combined with straw. The palm-wood beams are 

built into the walls to strengthen and to act as scaffolding to make 

the annual renovations easier. Positioned atop each spire, like the 

decorations of a giant cake, ostrich eggs symbolise fertility and 

purity. 

Like Oualata and Timbuktu, Djenné has a strong tradition of 

education with twenty-two Qur’anic schools, many madrasas and 

now government schools. A library houses ancient manuscripts of 

similar vintage to those of its sister towns. 

Despite the national holiday some vendors eventually showed up, 

mostly the poorest, to sell their produce. The market these days is 

based around agricultural trade rather than gold. Some Fulani 

women we spoke to had carried firewood for many miles to sell at 

the market. In the main market I noted spices, salt, soap, onions, 

dried fish and a pungent kind of fish stock, dried meat, groundnuts, 

chillies and live chickens. There were the usual omelettes and dough 

balls, music and clothing stalls. Mothers worked with babies 

25


Kate Leeming 

strapped to their backs and there were children and goats 

everywhere. 

Superficially, the beautiful mud buildings of Djenné, with influences 

from Morocco, Egypt and Ethiopia, could resemble a theme park. 

In reality though, the architectural beauty is very fragile and it is the 

day to day activities which are carried on around the town which 

give Djenné its character and identity. The trading post which fed 



off the gold and opulence of the Mali Empire no longer possesses 

such wealth. 

When people were unable to feed themselves as happened in the 

droughts of the 1970s and 1980s, the buildings are let go. Artisans 

drift to the cities and the ancient walls “melt” with the first rains. 

Fortunately, the masons, whose family lines stretch back half a 

millennium, did not leave and the community revived after the 

droughts, albeit with some outside assistance. The masons still mix 

clay dug from the surrounding plains with water from the Bani 

River, then, drawing on knowledge passed down through 

generations, they create and maintain an architecture that attracts 

visitors from all over the world. 

Back on the road, a positive nyama (a local Mande belief that there 

is a source of energy or power behind every task or movement) 

between pedal and foot, backside and saddle needed to be created to 

get me through the next part of our journey. Leaving Sévaré, the 

next main village north, my powers were further boosted by the 

special breakfast served at Mac’s Refuge accommodation. My 

metabolism had suitably cranked up to process the vast amounts of 

food needed for the challenge ahead. To start the day on the road I 

would normally put away four or five ladles of porridge. Rather 

than eating from a standard plastic plate like my teammates, I ate 

out of a large mixing bowl which we affectionately dubbed the “dog 

bowl”. At Mac’s I felt obliged to make the most of the variety of 

food offered. After consuming two huge buckwheat pancakes (made 

from millet flour) soaked in honey, numerous pieces of French 

26 

Image opposite: A Fulani girl on market day. 

Photo by Daniel Harman.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

27

28


Kate Leeming 

toast, a large bowl of homemade muesli, two helpings of fruit salad, 

juice and coffee, moving at all was a challenge! 



I cycled the 400km from Sévaré to Timbuktu alone. I quite enjoyed 

cycling on my own but for the first day and a half, from Sévaré to 

Douentza, I was never by myself for long. Beside the road an almost 

continuous procession of nomadic herders moved their stock, 

usually goats, sheep or cattle. The Fulani men would be dressed 

traditionally, some wearing conical straw hats, others turbans. Here, 

donkeys are real beasts of burden, often dwarfed by their loads. 

Firewood, grain, salt, goats, people – they haluded just about 

anything. On my journey through Africa so far I had witnessed 

donkeys receiving some of the cruellest treatment. I decided that 

anyone who returns to this world in another life as a Malian or 

Mauritanian mule must have done something pretty horrific to 

deserve such punishment. 

From about 50 kilometres before Douentza, the landscape 

transformed gradually into open savannah and the distant range of 

weathering buttes which form the northern end of the Falaise de 

Bandiagara made increasingly imposing and spectacular views. It 

was one of those inspiring mornings when I simply had to keep 

stopping to photograph what I was seeing. Fanning north-east from 

Douentza, a dramatic table top mountain range with sheer cliff faces 

rising over 600m above the plains must be a rock climber’s paradise. 

To ensure our safety through this region, John had reconnected 

with Cheikh Ag Baye, the head of a Tuareg organisation from Kidal 

in the north east, with whom he had worked on a previous 

expedition. The desert and its margins across Mauritania, Mali and 

Niger are all classified as red zones, areas of extreme danger, on 

Western government websites. Before the journey I had been 

negotiating with Cheikh and his people to accompany us through 

the region if required. But after checking out the situation, Cheikh’s 

advice to John was that our route was safe enough without their 

Image opposite: The better road to Timbuktu. Photo by John Davidson. 

Image opposite top: Restoring a village granary. 

29


Kate Leeming 

help. 

As I turned off the bitumen and on to the gravel my mind was 

prepared for a battle with the road which our Sahara Desert 4WD 

guide book described as an horrific sand trap on which motorbikes 

struggled. Locals in Douentza told us that the first section was good 

but that there would be sand after Bambara-Maounde, the village at 

the halfway point, so we stocked up with extra supplies in case the 



200km took three or four days. 

The mountain range not only served as a picture-postcard 

backdrop, it also shielded me from a strong north-easterly 

crosswind. As I headed the escarpments and entered the nondescript 

Sahel scrubland, the wind picked up; gusting into my face, it slowed 

me down to 13km an hour at times. The road had been recently 

made and true to the locals’ information, was excellent for the first 

40km. By the end of the day, however, it had deteriorated into a 

rough washboard surface. Assuming that this would be the standard 

for the next 140km or so, I tried to just go stead and conserve 

energy. 

John took care to find a well concealed campsite, perhaps a 

kilometre off the road. We were aware that this was still a 

potentially dodgy region and that traffickers frequent the road at 

night. They are known to use routes such as this to smuggle people, 

arms and drugs. The best line of defence for us was to ensure that 

they didn’t know we were there. At night, we turned off all lights 

each time we heard a vehicle hurtling along the road. 

Most of the road was corrugated. Cycling along it took full 

concentration as I constantly scanned the path in front of my wheel, 

searching for the smoothest looking option. I removed all but one 

rear pannier which made for a rougher ride but reduced the risk of 

broken equipment. Travelling over these surfaces, the wear and tear 

on everything, body and bike, is immense. My whole body, but 

particularly my legs, works much harder to take weight off the seat, 

30 

Image opposite: Reaching the River Niger crossing to Koulikoro. 

Image opposite top: The landscape as I approached Douentza.

31


Kate Leeming 

absorb the shocks and maintain balance over the bumpy and often 

soft surface. The team set up for a lunch break about 100 metres off 

the road and about 30km north of Bambara-Maounde but I was in 

such complete concentration rattling over the corrugations that I 

didn’t see or hear the others shouting at me to stop. I cycled straight 

past and John had to drive a couple of kilometres down the road to 

catch up with me. 

That evening we stayed beside a farmer’s encampment for 

protection, again well out of sight of the road. Life for the farmer 

and his family was simple but obviously harsh: they lived in a semipermanent 

tents and mostly tended to their animals. Their sandy, 

infertile soil supported little more than scrubby thorn trees and 

doublegee-infested grass; growing anything of nutritional value here 

would have been a challenge. The farmer insisted on providing us 

with an open-sided tent for shelter, swept the vicinity and collected 

wood to make a fire. Before leaving the next morning, in return for 

his hospitality we gave them some food – basics they probably 

didn’t have much of, such as sugar, potatoes, onions, rice and some 

tinned food. We were going to make it easily to Timbuktu, now 

only 60km away, where we could restock. The gifts were much 

appreciated. 

Our final push to Timbuktu I did have a tussle with the sand, but 

unlike in Mauritania, I had changed over to my wider “Expedition” 

tyres which I had brought for the job. This made a noticeable 

difference and I was able to power through most of the sandy 

patches, even if doing so did sap the last of my energy. 

I was amazed at the width of the Niger River here at the apex of the 

Camel’s Hump. We took the barge across what I estimated to be 

about 2km of water. From the other shore it was a simple 18km ride 

along a eucalypt-lined paved road to the Sahara’s fabled “city of 

gold”. The route from Douentza had been in better condition than 

we expected and I was pleased to have cycled it in two days. 

32

"Travel isn't always pretty. It isn't always 

comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even 

breaks your heart. But that's okay. The 

journey changes you; it should change you. 

It leaves marks on your memory, on your 

consciousness, on your heart, and on your 

body. You take something with you. 

Hopefully, you leave something good 

behind." 

Anthony Bourdain 

"No Reservations: Around the World on 

an Empty Stomach" 

33

Shangri-la 

at Sea 


34 

Image: Celebrity Infinity bound for Cape Horn

35

Shangri-La at Sea 


Teetering on an opera house-like stage in the fifteen foot seas of the 

south Atlantic, I am giving a lecture on a cruise ship about the 19th 

century explorer, Annie Peck. A week into the cruise, that began in 

the colorful seaside port of Valparaiso, Chile, we had rounded Cape 

Horn, a mythical place for a geographer and oceanographer. 

John Turk writes in Cold Oceans: 

“The earth comes alive when the forces of nature collide. Hurricanes 

and tornadoes arise when hot and cold air masses smash into one 

another. The steepest, most dangerous waves develop along the 

boundaries between opposing currents. When two tectonic plates 

grind into one another, the earth buckles to form lofty mountain 

ranges. There are a few places, called triple junctions, where three 

opposing influences, such as three different currents, wind systems or 

tectonic plates, collide. There is only one place on earth- Cape Hornwhere 

three triple junctions meet at the same point. Three oceans, the 

Pacific, the Atlantic, and the Antarctic converge at Cape Horn; each 

one ruled by a different current.” 



We have the rare opportunity to cruise around Cape Horn Island - 

the tip of South America. The previous cruise ship was not able to 

visit this historical point due to the prevalent high seas. Yet, three 

hours past this landmark, in the Atlantic Ocean, the seas become 

wild. I am reminded of the times I was seasick on my university’s 

oceanographic research vessel in the Pacific Ocean, once with 30 

foot swells. But this time I am not seasick, although a few people 

look green as they leave the theatre. It is as if I have crossed a 

threshold to the other side, after we round the cape. 

I imagine Ferdinand Magellan, the cartographer, navigator from 

Portugal, as he set out in 1519 (ultimately to circumnavigate the 

globe via South America) in order to find a quicker route to the 

Spice Islands for the Spanish government. He died in the 

Philippines, but one of his ships returned to Spain in 1522. 

I gaze up at his statue in the plaza of Punta Arenas and wonder 

36





what he was thinking back in 1520, nearly 500 years ago. It took his 

expedition a month to navigate through this region. 

Our galaxy’s neighbor satellite galaxies, only seen from the southern 

hemisphere, were named after him - the large and small Magellanic 

Clouds. As an avid astronomer, I go up on deck every clear night 

with my binoculars. I look at Orion upside down, Crux the 

southern cross, Alpha Centauri the closest star after our sun, and 

the various star clusters not visible from the northern hemisphere. 

The ship’s lights interfere with my star gazing, yet; I am in one of 

the darkest places on earth. Recently, the country of Chile 

designated the first international dark sky sanctuary down here - 

meaning it is one of the rarest and most fragile dark places left on 

earth. 

It is said that if a sailor in the old days rounded The Horn he could 

dine with the Queen with his boots on the table. I heard that the 

sailor would switch his golden hoop earring to the other ear as he 

rounded the Cape. My husband Tor, who is also lecturing on board 

(about our trek in Nepal, what we consider a ‘real adventure,’) is a 

former U.S. Navy sailor but I can’t imagine him wearing a hooped 

earring, however; I can see him with his feet up on the Queen’s 

table, given half a chance. 

Sir Francis Drake, a pirate and slave trader, was employed by the 

English government to find a route to the Spice Islands in 1577 and 

spy on the Spanish. He was the first Englishman to sail around 

Cape Horn and the world. In 1616, a Dutch expedition realised that 

Cape Horn (named for Hoorn, a Dutch city) was an island and did 

not connect with Antarctica, as many had thought. No longer a 

major shipping route these days, since the Panama Canal was 

completed in 1916, the Horn is still a feat of endurance for 

adventurous sailboats and yachts. 

This is my first trip to South America, and I am thrilled to be 

speaking about my mentor Annie Peck, whom I wrote my thesis 

about for my M.A. degree. This is her continent, and she traveled by 

37



steamship to South America, as well as between cities, including to 

Punta Arenas, the southern-most ‘city’ in the world. 

Peck wrote the first guide book to South America, the South 

American Tour, published in 1913, as well as Industrial and 

Commercial South America published in 1922 and reprinted as late 

as the 1970s. 

Peck, who never married, was one of the first female archaeologists 

(in Greece) and a mountaineer, spending much of her climbing 

career in Peru, with first ascents of Mount Huascaran and Mount 

Coropuna, when she was over 50 years old. She taught Latin in 

college and then quit her teaching career at age 47 to become a 

writer and lecturer full-time in North and South America. She was a 

late bloomer, like me. Interested in aviation and in order to promote 

tourism, Annie was the first person to fly around South America as 

a passenger, at age 80 in 1930. 



And… I am speaking on a cruise ship, in South America, just like 

Annie did. She lectured all around the continent promoting tourism 

and trade throughout the 1910s and 1920s. Her first trip to South 

America (Peru and Bolivia) was in 1903 on a mountaineering 

expedition when she fell in love with the continent. 

Today, I am living her legacy by sailing on a cruise ship and 

traveling to South America by jet airplane. Annie traveled to Europe 

three times, always by steamship, and to South America, from New 

York City where she lived, by ship. It took her nine days to travel 

to Panama and then she crossed the Canal Zone by rail and took 

mail/cargo ships south to other ports. 

Steamships were replaced by cruise-ships in the 1950s and 60s when 

long-distance airplanes succeeded ship travel. Instead, the ships 

became leisure lines. Peck wrote “Montevideo deserves a longer visit 

than many tourists make, who, remaining but a few hours, take a 

hurried drive about the city while the steamer lies in port.” The same 

is true today. We only had a few hours during which we visited the 

38 

Image opposite: Leaving port. 

Image opposite top: Seals and their pups

39





art museum of Joaquín Torres García and I wonder if Annie knew 

him, as he was back and forth to New York City where she lived 

during the same era. We ate fish and beef, with the common 

empanadas for appetizers, in a stall in the busy covered port market. 

My husband Tor and I had been invited to lecture on a cruise ship at 

the last minute. Both of us had never considered a cruise ship as a 

way to spend our time. It was outside our realm of what we thought 

was an ‘adventurous or cultural’ experience. Yet, how could we 

resist a trip around the mythical Horn! 

Another day at sea, I assist Tor with his talk, In Search of Shangri- 

La, about our trek in the Tsum Valley (valley of happiness) in the 

Himalaya of Nepal. People come up to us throughout the voyage 

with questions and comments about our presentations. 

Each night we ventured to the Trellis restaurant for the night’s 

surprise dinner. Maria, from Russia, greeted us with her perfect 

babushka-like smile and asked us how our day was going. She never 

forgot our room number, or to smile. Every night she asked us, 

“Would you like a table with a sea view?” 

A waiter from Indonesia, Ukraine, Peru, India, Philippines, or some 

other far-flung country would greet us with a smile and a menu. 

There was an array of succulent appetizers to choose from, and 

eight main courses. Olga or Rudy would explain each dish. Once 

our decision was made, a sommelier would advise us on our wine 

selection. We usually indulged in the dessert offerings, including 

crème brûlée and tiramisu. 

“Siffy and Tor, how was your day, was it relaxing? The Chilean Sea 

Bass is fresh, and the Argentine lamb chops are the chef’s 

recommendation. How about the lobster? Can I entice you with one 

of our appetizers? Perhaps a bottle of Cabernet from the vineyards 

of Mendoza?” 

Tor and I would banter with the waiters, asking all sorts of 

questions, with Tor sharing his experiences in their home countries, 

40



as he has lived in and visited numerous countries. The menu was a 

true culinary adventure, as was the food we tasted on our shore 

explorations, such as spider crab stew and parilla cooked beef, as 

well as indigenous mate tea (the gourds for drinking mate, and metal 

‘straws’ could be found for sale throughout Uruguay, Argentina, 

and Chile). 

Tor was surprised that several of the ship’s sommeliers came from 

the Philippines. 



“I never had a glass of wine, or even was offered one for that matter, 

in the Philippines. What an adventure for them!” 

Each night we are seated beside a different couple or group of cruise 

guests. One night we sat next to a father and son from France; 

another evening, two girlfriends from Brazil, and on yet another 

day, a Chilean couple celebrating twenty years of marriage; and 

several American and Canadian couples. Invariably, we would end 

up in conversation with our neighbors, and the discussion was 

always enjoyable. In fact, the vast majority of the cruisers were 

interested in everything and were good listeners. Our cruise was a 

bit off the beaten path; the ship “Celebrity Infinity” was not for the 

sunshine craved crowd who want to sit poolside and indulge in 

fancy umbrella drinks, rather, these cruisers wanted to experience 

something new. 

This was a more ‘adventurous’ and older crowd than I imagine is 

on, say a Caribbean Cruise. Patagonia is cold and rainy. Punta 

Arenas and Cape Horn is difficult and expensive to reach. Many 

people I met had come just to see the infamous Cape Horn, 

including a Swedish couple, former Peace Corps volunteers (like 

myself) and a former Navy sailor (like Tor). Although some people 

were on their first cruise just to see the Cape, many others made it a 

life-style and had been on numerous cruises. 

The 2000 passengers and 1000 staff were all so friendly and happy; 

everyone was always smiling, said hello, and were chatty even on 

41

42





the elevators. Was I in Utopia? I wondered. 

Luigi, our ship’s activity manager was a burst of energy. “If you are 

bored, you are boring!” he announced one morning on the ship’s 

television station. 

“Where are you from?” A common question from staff and 

passengers. Seventy percent of the cruisers were either from the 

United States or Canada, but I also met French, German, English, 

Indian, Chinese, Chilean, Argentinian, Australian and Swedish 

passengers. 

Most of the cruisers were over 65 years old and the majority of the 

staff were under 30 years old. Employees came from all over the 

world: from Indonesia to Africa, India and South America. We 

learned about the world through the eyes of the employees. 

Annie Peck would have been so happy to see the international 

diversity on our ship. She believed that trade and tourism led to 

peace between nations. Her last trip was around the world, but she 

came home after her visit to Athens, Greece, where she had studied 

in her thirties, as her health was failing at age 84. I feel fortunate that 

I can go places Annie could not, and do things she could not, a 

flight to South America from Europe takes less than a day, in her 

time it would take over a week by ship to arrive in Chile. And I 

have been fortunate enough to travel to the Himalaya and Alaska, 

two places she wanted to visit but never did. 

We had been assigned a stateroom with a small portal in the 

employee section of the ship on the second level (of 11). I was 

excited to have a window and often peeked out to watch the ocean 

or landscape pass by. Our housekeeper, Winnie, from Africa, always 

had a cheery attitude, cleaned the room to perfection. She told us, “I 

clean your room twice a day.” Although I tried to tell her even once 

a day was too much, she continued to clean it twice a day. Every 

evening we would open our door to chocolates on our pillow. One 

thing I could not bring myself to do was to pay $3.00 for a piece of 

Image opposite: Swarthy Gauchos! 

Image opposite top: Fair winds and following seas. Cruising through the fjords of 

Patagonia. 

43



laundry to be washed. Winnie probably smiled, on reflection, when 

she saw undies, shirts and socks hanging all over our small room 

from time to time. 

One morning my husband and I rose at 4 a.m. and went out on deck 

in the dark. A handful of dedicated nature photographers paced 

around the ship with professional camera gear and a lens for every 

occasion. We had entered Beagle channel and we felt the ‘presence’ 

of the landscape around us. Slowly, the darkness transitioned into 

ridgeline silhouettes and dark blue hues. As the sun creeped over the 

Patagonian horizon, shades of pastel colors washed the scene before 

us. 



Glaciers hung like white fingers dipping into the sea, and daylight 

presented a magical world of towering mountains, glaciers, 

waterfalls, the sea and sky. It was one of those rare moments in life, 

when a landscape etches itself into your soul, and offers a refuge 

later in life. 

Because cruising is outside our box of what we would normally do, 

it was indeed an adventure for us, and learning about the ‘cruising 

culture’ was a whole new world. We met people above our social 

status, and those that saved money for years to see the mythical 

Cape Horn. I feel like Annie, who wined and dined with diplomats 

and South American presidents, yet she was always struggling to 

save money to come back to South America. It took her four years 

of saving before she went on her first trip to Bolivia and Peru. 

Many adventures could be had without even leaving the ship, from 

learning about gemstones and wines, to cake decorating, Tango 

classes, cooking, movies, art shows, and nature talks. I was surprised 

that the Infinity has a full-time naturalist on board. He travels with 

the ship which cruises in the South Pacific, as well as from 

Antarctica to Alaska. Milos gave popular talks on the animals of 

Patagonia, the weather, climate and astronomy. I was impressed by 

the way he could explain basic science concepts for the average 

person without sounding condescending, and his use of humor to 

44





captivate the audience. He talked about climate change and 

overpopulation, and stressed that women’s rights leads to better 

economic conditions everywhere. He spoke non-apologetically and 

with infectious enthusiasm. 

A dog whisperer, Gary Kramer, gave a presentation about animal 

behavior, and a geography professor, Larry Herzog, taught the 

cruisers about the countries we were visiting. Entertainment 

included a disco production by the staff troupe, Russian acrobats, 

Alan and Yulia Reva, and a flamenco guitarist, Greg Reiter. The spa 

offered acupuncture, many types of massages, an analysis of one’s 

stance, as well as classes from yoga to Zumba, all with a view out 

the front of the ship. I had a Thai massage by a woman from 

Thailand; acupuncture by a Brazilian, a South African worked the 

desk. A Romanian man taught classes on caring for your feet and 

back. 

In ports, various excursions were available, from kayaking to 

trekking, 4x4 off-roading, cultural tours, or do your own thing. The 

port calls were a great way for us to make reconnaissance of areas 

we would like to visit in the future. 

Puerto Montt really intrigued us, with its Fuji-like volcano, 

Osorno, standing across Lake Llanquihue; as did the town of 

Ushuaia, surrounded by glaciers and where we hiked in the rain 

through the lush beech tree forest. At Puerto Madryn we visited a 

sea lion colony, in Punta del Este we admired a lighthouse and hung 

out with locals at the beach. We rode horses, ate slabs of meat with 

gauchos, and attended a traditional dance production in Argentina. 

We only took two of the ship ‘excursions’ and preferred to do more 

independent travel. 

In Buenos Aires, I visited the address of Annie’s hotel where she 

had always stayed, the Grand Hotel. Although the building is no 

longer a hotel, it is still there (apartments now) and the first floor is 

a Burger King. Annie always promoted industry and trade with 

South America, and how ironic that the Burger King was at the 

45



bottom of her building now, with a Starbucks across the street. 

Annie was the first person to suggest banks from the United States 

set up branches in South America. 

We visited the gravesite of Eva Perón in La Recoleta cemetery. I 

found myself looking at the death dates on various tombs, noting if 

they were after 1930, when Annie had last visited the cemetery. 

Elaborate rooms, with altars, statues and carvings, honored the 

dead. 

We sipped coffee in the famous Café Tortoni, opened by a French 

immigrant in the 1880s. It was not far from Annie’s hotel and I am 

sure she must have had coffee there. The ambiance was old world, 

with antique Tiffany lamps, tables and historical photos of former 

patrons, as well as busts of various famous Argentinians. The 

ancient indigenous ombú trees (banyan tree look-alikes) dot the city 

landscape with their crazy root-like structures and were especially 

appreciated on the 80-degree sunny day. 

Our last night of our trip, Tor’s birthday, we spent in the Moreno 

Hotel, a historic building constructed in the 1920s by an architect 

family, in the intellectually influenced neighborhood of San Telmo. 

We ate a delicious French meal in a jazz club and enjoyed a view of 

the city from the rooftop terrace. Afterwards, at Café La Poesía, 

which opened in 1982, we relish the intellectual ambiance with a 

cognac and flan. 

After two weeks on the cruise, with several port calls, we watch 

ourselves with amusement on the ship’s television channel (all the 

lectures are televised, we were indeed celebrities)! During the cruise, 

we ate like royalty, slept better than we had in years, and felt 

refreshed. We were fortunate to see a unique slice of society, the 

cruising crowd, and the mythical Patagonia and Cape Horn. 

The Infinity truly was a floating global village where people of all 

ages, nations, and social status got along. There was such an 

abundance of peace and happiness. Had we finally found our 

Shangri-La on a cruise ship? 

46

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— 

I took the one less traveled by, 

And that has made all the difference." 

Robert Frost 

The Road Not Taken 

47

Monlam Cham 

Festival 


8 

48

Top: A masked dancer bares a fearsome countenance to scare away evil spirits. 

Middle: A group of monks watch while their comrades practice. 

Bottom: The "Monlam Cham" dance, held in front of the monastery 

Photos (c) Denis Belliveau 

49


Francis O' Donnell 

Like many 'Timeless Travel' adventures this one started between the 

pages of a dusty old book long forgotten, 'The Travels of Marco 

Polo'. My mother had given me the volume. It sat on my shelf for 

years until one day it ignited a dream to retrace the Venetian 

explorer’s entire route along the legendary Silk Road. Our 

expedition's name was 'The Return to Venice'. 

Now, after many arduous months, our caravan had survived a series 

of rock slides and avalanches. We had climbed through snowy 

mountain passes, to reach the seemingly endless Tibetan highlands. 

Its people are nomadic and roam this plateau with their sundry 

beasts, wild and free as the wind. We had been told by fellow 

travelers that there is a rich Gompa called Labrang which is a very 

sacred Monastery to the Gelug sect of Tibetan Buddhism and is the 

repository of great knowledge and wealth. 



In Marco Polo’s time, hundreds of Monks were said to live there, it 

was founded in 1709 by the first Jamyang Zhépa, Ngawang 

Tsöndrü. It is to be found in a blessed mountain valley named 

Sangke, hidden like a gem in a lotus flower, surrounded by 108 

sacred peaks with names like, Eternal Bliss, Tolerance and 

Compassion, Radiance and Harmony, Dragon and Phoenix, 

Everlasting Life and Tian Shan, which equates to the Mountain of 

Heaven. 

It sounded like romantic hyperbole, but I was hopeful. We had 

risked this sidetrack because a great festival was about to take place 

and thousands of pilgrims from all over Tibet would be enjoining. 

It was our intention to witness and document the festivities, seek 

out trade goods like coral, amber, silver, gold, and other precious 

gems, which decorated their “women and idols,” as Marco Polo said 

in his account of the region 700 years prior. As we approached our 

destination, the larger the gathering became, an ever increasing 

stream of pilgrims could be seen on the horizon, little specks 

focused on one heading. 

My guess was there were at least thirty thousand supplicants filling 

50



the small town and camping in the surrounding valleys. We were 

invited to stay in one such camp with an extended family. It was 

hard for me to tell the difference between clans, the diversity of 

customs and dress was dizzying. One thing was standard, the 

friendly open nature in which everyone greeted us. Most would 

stop momentarily, bow slightly, and while smiling, stick out their 

tongue and say, “Dimo Dimo.” The way Westerners might shake 

hands the Tibetans stick out their tongues! At first, I was taken 

aback, not knowing what it meant. I have to say that the novelty of 

sticking your tongue out, as a greeting, wears off quickly. After a 

few dozen greetings it can be quite tiring, causing your tongue to 

swell, making it hard to eat. 

I first had the honor of drinking salted yak butter tea some years 

ago and had grown to like, even enjoy, its thick and oily, rancid 

taste. Our hosts had a few new twists they introduced me to. Aside 

from all the yak fat, odd chunks of meat, hair, sinew, and cartilage, 

they added a grain called tsampa into their tea which makes it more 

of a porridge. This is how it's done. You leave a little buttered tea 

in the bottom of your bowl and put a big dollop of this tsampa meal 

on top. You then stir gently with the forefinger, kneading it by 

hand, meanwhile, twisting your bowl ‘round and round’ until you 

finish up with a large dumping like object which you ingest, and 

wash down with more tea. 

The whole operation demands a high degree of manual dexterity 

and practice before you can judge correctly how much tsampa goes 

with how much tea. Unless you get the proportions right you 

either end up with a lump of desiccated dough or a semi liquid paste 

sticking to your fingers. Tibetans have many names for themselves, 

one is, “The Tsampa Eaters.” This term promotes a unified Tibetan 

identity. Tsampa meal constitutes a substantial part of the Tibetan 

diet and is used in sacred rituals. According to Polo’s account, 

“There are Holy Men here who live lives of great austerity and all 

their lives they eat nothing but this bran.” 

51



So, there we sat, smiling, sticking our tongues out and sucking 

down hot buttery balls of tsampa bran, and trying to communicate. 

Neither, my colleague, photographer, Denis, or I knew many words 

of Tibetan, so we communicated in our very limited Chinese, but 

mostly, with smiles and pantomime. 

When the vodka was finished they broke out the Chang a Tibetan 

beer. Chang is also made of tsampa bran and has a rich, deep, tangy, 

bubbly taste. We all became highly inebriated and sang ourselves to 

sleep in a mixed chorus of the old standards, 'Row, Row, Row Your 

Boat' and 'Old Susanna' and some Tibetan tunes that we tried hard 

to mimic. When I rose the next morning the nearby campsites had 

packed up and were gone. Our hosts, too, had vanished. How 

could we have slept through that? Wow, I am never drinking again, 

that is it for Chang! 



We rode on in anticipation. Soon in the distance we could see the 

golden rooftops and whitewashed walls of the great Labrange 

Gompa peeking out from behind the trees. The smell of pine and 

cedar was everywhere as breakfast fires filled the air. Even at this 

early hour the path was packed with thousands of Tibetan pilgrims 

performing parikrama as they paraded proudly past. Dressed, as 

they were, in their Sunday-going-to-festival-best. The spectacle was 

spectacular. 

Families, tall and proud, walked hand-in-hand toward the town. 

Fathers wearing fox fur hats of great height, bodies wrapped in 

inverted sheepskin cloaks, tied tight at the waist, with colorful 

silken sashes, fastened with gem encrusted broaches. A mighty 

pommel in his hand, dagger sheathed, he led his Clan, a patriarch's 

parental swagger, he did sway, as the growing crowd parted way. 

Mother and children bringing up the rear with happy grins from 

ear-to-ear. Their frost bitten cheeks were here to share in this 

Festival of Losar which happens only once a year. 

The thousands of pilgrims in attendance believe that their mere 

presence increases their Karma. By obeying Dharma and 

52





commemorating Guatama's spiritual victory over the forces of 

ignorance, greed, fear, and anger they can accrue good fortune for 

themselves in the New Year. So, it is a kind of renewal. This act, 

too, may help one attain merit on their path to enlightenment. 

After months of making our way through the Silk Roads deserts, 

dry and bleak, every hue of brown did I see. Tawny was the sky, at 

night, five shades of beige, sand our constant delight. When the 

shadows of dusk were finally cast, dark brown, sienna, and umber 

came out at last. The color flowing into this town could astound. 

Red, yellow, and blue were just a few there to be found. There were 

secondaries, too, a kaleidoscopic mix of all, a majestic vision to 

behold. The primaries were in force, in the form of coral, amber, 

and turquoise, of course. Precious stones held in place with facets 

of silver and golden lace. 

Fortunes attached to headdresses, heavy and long, with tails that 

hung behind beautiful maiden's derrieres. Rings and bracelets, for 

men and boys, items that not only the women did enjoy. Paupers, 

peasants, and princes all stopped at crowded market stalls, that had 

sprung up along the way, to separate pilgrims from their pay. There 

was a magic in the air. The tension of anticipation without despair, 

the past was the past, for soon New Year's day would be here. 

Riders, at breakneck speed, parted the human tide. Birds of prey 

swooped down with the swiftness of a whirlwind. Warrior Monks, 

whose wings were of crimson cloaks, flew through the crowding 

sky, as they took flight to roost amongst the monasteries main flock. 

Quarters of the Lampo Lama and home of the living Buddha. 

We came to stay at a chamber run by the monastery. Our cell was 

small and dark with shutters shut, a profusion of oil lamps lit the 

space. It was freezing cold, in what was once Amdo Provence, in 

late January. The coal burning stove was just being lit by one of the 

monks that oversees the residences. We threw our packs down on 

the horse hair mattress. The bed consisted of several planks of 

wood nailed together and stretched across chairs at either end. 

53



Exhausted we collapsed, our coma seemed to last forever. Shivering 

terribly, my teeth were chattering as I awoke, it was only 11 pm and 

our fire was out. It was going to be a long night. 

Up with the sun, over the next few days, we explored the town and 

made ourselves known. With still two weeks before the main 

festivities we had a chance to make friends with many of the monks, 

from the novices to the higher-ups. We spent time with them 

kicking a soccer ball around in front of the main temple, or cut in 

line joining the never ending stream of pilgrams who walked the 

circuit around the sacred percinct and spun the many thousands of 

prayer wheels which lined the way. We too chant “Om Mani..,” 

“The Jewel is in the Lotus.” 

We spent simple moments, like sharing pictures of home and 

teaching each other words of our respective languages. It was 

bucolic in its nature, pure and unpretentious. Like two alien beings 

from different solar systems, coming together, truly interested in 

one another's planets. 

Labrange Gompa is a renowned center for Buddhist thought and 

Tibetan cultural heritage. It contains eighteen prayer halls, six 

institutes of higher learning. The great library houses nearly sixty 

thousand prayer books and an area for theological debate, as well as, 

books on medicines, art, and music. They have a large collection of 

Buddha statues and murals. 

The central house of prayer contains a golden statue of the Buddha, 

more than fifty feet high, and in the main courtyard there is a 

golden stupa with a relic of the lord Buddha contained within. The 

main purpose of the Great Prayer Festival or Monlam Chenmo is to 

pray for the long life of holy Gurus of all traditions, for the survival 

and spreading of the Dharma in the minds of all sentient beings, and 

for world peace. The communal prayers, ceremonies, and rituals 

that will take place are believed to help overcome obstacles to peace 

and generate optimum conditions for everyone to live in harmony. 

54

Top Left: A Lama prepares to join the debates. 

Top Right: A monk shares yak butter tea with the pilgrims. 

Bottom Left: The great "Thangka" painting being unfurled on a hillside. 

Bottom Right: A magnificent coral headpiece. 

Photos (c) Denis Belliveau 

55

56 

Top Left: A pilgrim rests and enjoys the moment. 

Top Right: Monks practice their routine for the upcoming Monlam 

Cham dance. 

Bottom Left: A fine example of Tibetan wealth, silver, coral and amber 

held in decorative attire. 

Bottom Right: A young pilgrim who has walked many miles. 

Photos (c) Denis Belliveau



The Monks have much to do during this period and we sat in as 

they did so. Each student is required to study the canon of 

Buddhist scriptures at the Mayjung Tosamling Academy. During 

Monlam they must participate in examinations for advanced degrees 

and debate. These debates kickoff the activities, next comes the 

Cham dance itself, followed by the revealing of a huge sacred 

Thangka painting. 

Closing with the ritual offering and burning of the Tormas cake and 

elaborate butter sculptures. Lastly, there is the circumambulation of 

the entire Gompa complex one hundred and eight times. They 

carry images of the Lord Buddha with them in prayer. 

The festival grounds where the debates were to take place were 

frozen when we got there and packed with thousands of crimson 

clad monks assembled before an open shrine housing a gilded statue 

of Shakyamuni. In unison they recited scriptures and prayers. 

They in turn were surrounded by thousands more, pilgrims, who 

squeezed into and packed every spot possible. 

On the platform of the shrine sat senior monks, teachers, and 

overseers donning huge amber colored crescent shaped bonnets. 

They would lead the rituals and debates. A chorus of monks seated 

at the base of the shrine blew giant horns thirty feet long, whose 

voices were so deep and strong it shook the very bones inside your 

frame. Others then blew high pitched and squeaky horns, 

drummers beat drums and clashed symbols while all hummed and 

chanted a foreboding tune. Next these overseers rose to their feet 

and conjured spells and incantations. 

Then their leader began to bless and throw pinches of tsampa into 

the air. Throwing tsampa as an offering is used as a petition to 

request protection from the gods. It is a mark of joy and 

celebration used on occasions, such as marriages and birthdays. 

Then the debate began in earnest for hour upon hour. Teams of 

three and four monks would debate each other in some point of 

doctrine and theology. 

57



When a Monk felt he had gained the upper hand or won a point of 

rhetoric they would slap their hands together, straight out in front 

of themselves as if proving a point or putting an exclamation point 

on it. The whole of the crowd was very well behaved and seemed 

enthralled by the event, but I found it quite boring. 

I never did like attending church much. Standing here looking 

across the field, I thought how similar the lives of these Monks are 

to Christian Monks. They live austere lives in religious Monastic 

communities, dedicated to worship and prayer, they dress in priestly 

vestments and tonsure their heads. 



Then across a sea of bobbing heads and faces, I saw Denis' mug 

making his way in my direction. I had a strange moment of 

dislocation. Here, amongst the natives, I felt at home and of no 

difference. Now, seeing my friend coming towards me, I knew just 

how out of place I really was. “Good to see you, what brings you to 

the debate?” I said facetiously, “Nothing Franny, just thought you 

might want to find something to eat?”, “Sure let's go”, was my reply 

as I threw my arm around his shoulder, inquiring if he thought he 

had captured any good images that morning and thought to myself, 

you gotta love this guy. The weight of the expedition put a lot of 

pressure on our friendship and often we would take it out on one 

another. Xiahe, as the town is known in Chinese, softened this 

tension, letting us slow down and appreciate things, life, and one 

another, anew. 

We found ourselves at one of the few ‘Dining establishments’, the 

Tashi Delek Momo Palace. We had to wait in line outside for about 

a half an hour, so, we munched on grilled wild hare on a stick from a 

street vendor out front. 

Once seated we just pointed to dishes that looked good, as they 

passed, and told the waiter to bring them to us. Specialties like 

gyuma, blood sausage, and braised boar tongue, dressed in a unique 

sweet and spicy chili sauce, which came out first. The room was full 

of diners slurping away. We ordered Thenthuk, a brothy shaved 

58





noodle soup, liberally spiced with garlic and onions, and studded 

with different mystery meats and leafy mountain herbs. 

A giant pile of steaming hot Momos hit the table, big fat greasy 

dumplings, filled with minced spiced goat meat. When you bit into 

one it would explode gushing unctuous fat that would drip down 

your chin and all over your chest. My favorite dish was the huge 

slab of char-grilled yak steak slathered with garlic sauce, washed 

down with the ubiquitous salted butter tea. 

The big day had arrived, at sunrise supplicants started to venture 

toward the main plaza. Now, a few days into the festivities, the 

Monlam Cham Dance would take place in front of the Gompa main 

temple. For months prior, monks from the College of Tantric 

Kalachakra spend every spare moment practicing their special part 

in the dance. The discipline of Kalachakra is one of perfect selfcontrol 

over each and every movement of the body. Each bend, 

twist, and curve of a hand, wrist or finger contains profound 

meaning. The placement of a foot, the act of spinning and jumping 

through the air tells a story, in a language that only those who 

understand can decipher. 

The morning had come and gone. We had great seats right up front 

sitting in and amongst the monks who had befriended us. The 

thousands waiting did so patiently. There was a special seating 

section, a loge built just below the roof line of the monastery. 

Among the dignitaries I could see several of the Gompas spiritual 

leaders. 

Sitting with them was the monastery's living Buddha, who I was 

shocked to see was just a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve. A living 

Buddha is a fully realized being, one who has attained the spiritual 

level needed to reach Buddha consciousness and nirvana but has 

chosen to stay in the world to help all sentient beings on their path 

to enlightenment, a Bodhisattva. 

Finally, the dancers who had donned majestic silken robes, and 

59



wore the most demonic masks ever to be seen, slowly and 

methodically emerged from behind a hidden screen. One at first 

crouching and bending, swirling, and shaking, waving his arms 

about casting incantations with sacred amulets and symbols of 

Karmic powers. He called forth his cousins, who gladly appeared, 

scowling devils with faces twin to his. All joined his evil romp, 

stomping around together, hallowing this sacred ground. With 

fierce countenance so profound as to scare the sources of bad luck 

and evil away from the town. Now, in a more frenzied fashion they 

did move, faster, and faster until coming to completion, full 

saturation. Their secret message sent again, and again, and again, 

on, and on it went, until every soul present was spent. 

Hour after hour we endured the mesmerizing haunt of drums and 

bones. Horns in repetition blew, the thunderous symbol clashed, 

too. Upon their demon heads they wore a crown of skulls, grinning 

at the hypnotized crowd, lost in meditation, each and everyone of 

us, proud to have been witness to this sacred troupe's operatic 

ballet. Insuring happiness and good fortune throughout the land. 

Happy Losar to one and all. 

The time had come, our fantasy over, soon we would catch the bus, 

our real 'Caravan' for the four hour ride back to Lanzhou the 

capital of Gansu Province. We stood on a hillside overlooking the 

monastery, nestled in the Daxia river valley below, as the last 

pilgrims melted back into the steppe. Smoke rose up to the heavens 

and we could hear the soul stirring song of nomadic tribesmen 

echoing on the wind and off the surrounding mountains. We 

communicated in silence, each understanding the profound 

experience we had and knowing we had been changed. Not daring 

to speak so as not to break the spell, a tear rolled down my cheek at 

having to leave. This was my 'Lost Horizon' and it extends on 

forever. 

60

"The people have a language of their own, 

and they are called Tibet." 

Marco Polo 

61

Ripcord 

Encounters 

Lonnie Dupre 


8 

62

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

Encounters often happen when you least expect them. You might 

meet someone unexpectedly, witness a scene in nature that leaves 

you stunned, read a book that turns your life around or have a raven 

appear to guide you down a mountain. Encounters can touch you in 

many different ways and have the potential, in the blink of an eye, 

to fundamentally change the course of your life forever. 

I recently discussed this with explorer Lonnie Dupre. I asked 

Lonnie to share a significant encounter in his long and distinguished 

career in the arctic and the mountains. Lonnie shared the following 

experience with me: 

In 1991, while crossing the Northwest Passage, west to east, with 

Malcolm Vance, I encountered a presence that has never left me. 

One day, in the middle of winter in the McKenzie Delta, we stopped 

to give the dogs a rest and stretch our legs. We hadn’t seen the sun 

for weeks and it was -40 degrees Fahrenheit. 

As I was walking to the front of my sled towards Malcolm I 

suddenly felt as if someone was walking besides me. I quickly turned 

Image above: Lonnie Dupre, Polar explorer 

63

Ripcord Encounters: Lonnie Dupre 


to look at my new companion. There was no one next to me yet I felt 

a definite “presence” at my side. 

I wondered if there was a bear in the area. I felt completely 

energized! I waited for a hand to reach out and touch my face. I 

kept walking towards Malcolm, and the presence stayed at my side. 

When I reached Malcolm I asked him if he saw or felt anything 

strange. He said that he didn’t. 

A few days later, on the longest day of winter, we came to an old 

abandoned cabin with a makeshift cemetery in the yard. One of the 

graves was dated 21 Dec 1919. It made me wonder about the 

presence that I had experienced. Since that day I have been waiting 

for the presence to return to me. It has been as if someone has been 

traveling with me all these years and one day I will get to meet 

them. 

Shackleton, Richard Weber, and Wally Herbert have had similar 

experiences. Often polar explorers spend extended periods in total 

isolation; this in-turn, leads to elevated senses, a sort of sixth sense. 

During these periods it is not uncommon to encounter a “Third 

Person.” 

Lonnie’s encounter stirred something deep inside of me. I have 

known Lonnie for a long time and his reflection rang true and I was 

grateful that he had shared this encounter with me. 

Lonnie is well known in the expedition world for his many arctic 

feats. He was the first person to traverse the Northwest Passage by 

dog sled, circumnavigate Greenland by dog sled and kayak, cross 

the polar cap in the summer, and summit Denali solo in January. 

Lonnie eats cold for breakfast. He has published two books and 

recently produced the film “Cold Love.” 

Lonnie has a great sense of humor, is a master carpenter, great cook, 

steadfast friend, and a steward of the environment. In fact, he is one 

of my great Encounters in life. 

64

"For the born traveller, traveling is a 

besetting vice. Like other vices, it is 

imperious, demanding its victim's time, 

money, energy and the sacrifice of 

comfort." 

Aldous Huxley 

"Along the Road" 

65

Architecture 

Through The Ages 

From the road less traveled 

Shane Dallas 

8 

66

The history of the world is told by the many buildings and monuments 

found across the globe. During my extensive travels, there are some sites 

that remain in my memory long after my visit is concluded. 

Above: Afghanistan – A disused fort sits in the village of Qala e-Panja in 

the Wakhan Valley in North Eastern Afghanistan near the border of 

Tajikistan. It lies in one of the most remote regions on earth. 

67 67

Top: China – The Forbidden City in Beijing is one of the grandest 

palaces in the world containing nearly 10,000 rooms. For nearly 500 

years it was home to emperors of feudal China. 

Above: Yemen – Dawn over the UNESCO World Heritage Site of the 

Old City of Sana’a in Yemen. With its distinctive architecture, a visit 

to the Old City is like visiting the setting of an Arabian fairytale. 

68

Top: Ethiopia – The Bole Medhane Alem Cathedral in Addis Ababa, 

Ethiopia is one of the largest churches in Africa. This is dawn on 

Genna (Ethiopia Orthodox Christmas) where parishioners stay all 

night and pray every hour on the hour for twelve hours. 

Above: North Korea – The Pyongyang metro in North Korea is one 

of the most intriguing metro stations you will see. Buried deep 

underground its most unusual feature is the total absence of any 

advertising. 

69 69

70

Myanmar – The plain of Bagan in Myanmar is home to more than 

2,500 Buddhist temples, stupas and monasteries. A visit here is one 

of the highlights of Myanmar, especially when watching a magical 

dawn. 71 71

Top: Zimbabwe – The Great Enclosure of Great Zimbabwe is one of 

the greatest archaeological sites south of the Sahara in Africa. The 

nation of Zimbabwe derived its name from this site that was occupied 

from the 11th to the 15th centuries. 

72 

72 

Above: Russia – The Kremlin and Red Square is one of the world's 

most iconic urban scenes. Its most famous building is Pokrovski 

Cathedral (Cathedral of St Basil the Blessed) otherwise known as St 

Basil's that can be seen on the left of the picture.

Top: Syria – Arguably the world's finest Crusader castle is Krak des 

Chevaliers in Syria. With blocks, halls and rooms on an imposing 

scale, this 900 year old castle once housed 4000 soldiers. 

Above: UAE – One of the most spectacular buildings constructed in 

the past decade, the Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi, 

United Arab Emirates, was opened in 2007. This is one of the world’s 

largest mosques and it can hold more than 40,000 worshippers. 73 73

74

Above: Egypt – The Temple of Hathor in Dendara is one of the best 

preserved temples in all of Egypt. One can even climb onto the roof or 

explore the catacombs of this 2000 year old temple. 

75 

75

Ibn Fadlan and 

the Midnight 

Sun 


8 

76

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 


Ibn Fadlan and the Midnight Sun 

Caroline Cross 

“On ...going back to my house, I looked at my beard. It was a single 

lump of ice and I had to thaw it in front of the fire.” 

Early in A.D. 920, the Abbasid Caliph al-Muqtadir received a letter 

from the king of the Slavs, who ruled in an area of Russia north of 

today's Kazan. The king asked the caliph to send someone to 

instruct him in the True Faith, to teach him the laws of Islam, and to 

build him a mosque. As the Slavic lands in those days were both 

distant and unknown, the caliph pondered the request for more 

than a year. At last, however, he decided to grant it and on June 21, 

the next year, the caliph's ambassador Nadhir al-Harami and his 

retinue set out from Baghdad. Not much is known about the results 

of the mission; the ambassador's official report has not survived. 

But the expedition did produce one fascinating document: a detailed 

chronicle of the 2,500-mile trip written by the ambassador's 

secretary, Ibn Fadlan. 

This account is one of the first since Roman times to provide a 

description of the harsh and arid steppes of Russia. It includes, as 

Ibn Fadlan himself said, “all that I witnessed in the countries of the 

Turks, the Khazars, the Rus, the Slavs, the Bashkirs and others, 

regarding their religious beliefs, their kings, and the general state of 

their affairs.” He also described the personal experiences of the trip, 

particularly the extremes of weather - astonishing to a man from the 

hot lowlands of Baghdad. 

After leaving Bukhara, now in the Soviet Union, Ibn Fadlan was 

hardly able to believe the cold as they headed north - some 400 

miles - and spent three months in ‘al-Jurjaniya’ near modern 

Kungrad just south of the Aral Sea. 

"I was told that two men had set out with a dozen camels intending 

to load them with wood in the forest, but they forgot to take flint 

and steel with them. They had to spend the night without fire and by 

morning they and their camels were dead from the violence of the 

cold. I saw how much the intense cold makes itself felt in this 

country...the streets and markets are empty and one can walk almost 

anywhere without meeting a soul. On leaving the hammam and 

going back to my house, I looked at my beard. It was a single lump 

77



of ice and I had to thaw it in front of the fire. I slept...wrapped in 

clothes and furs, but in spite of that my cheek stuck to my pillow. In 

this country I saw...the earth split and great crevices form through 

the intensity of the cold, and I saw a huge tree split into two halves 

for the same reason." 

At last, in February the Amu-Darya River began to thaw and Ibn 

Fadlan's party made preparations to set out north-eastwards. They 

bought shaggy Bactrian camels and huge quantities of food and, 

despite the warnings of the locals, who said they would never 

return, set out again. They soon found, Ibn Fadlan admits, that the 

locals had not exaggerated. When they reached the area north of the 

Caspian Sea they found that the cold of the journey made the 

previous months seem “like the days of summer.” They also found 

that they had to dress more warmly: “Each of us had on a tunic and 

over that a kaftan and over that a sheepskin robe and over that a 

felt cloak and over that a burnoose - after which only our two eyes 

showed. We also wore a pair of ordinary trousers and a pair of fur 

lined ones, slippers, light boots, and over those boots more boots, so 

that each of us on mounting his camel found he could hardly move 

because of all the clothes.” 



So they travelled until they came into the land of the Oghuz Turks, 

between the Caspian Sea and the Ural Mountains. The Oghuz, Ibn 

Fadlan said, “were nomads, possessors of tents of hair, who move 

from place to place. Their tents are to be seen now here, now there, 

as is the way of nomads, depending on their wanderings. They live in 

the greatest poverty...” 

On the other hand, Ibn Fadlan noticed, the Oghuz owned vast 

herds of animals. “I saw people who owned 10,000 horses and 

100,000 sheep,” he wrote. Ibn Fadlan was also distressed to learn 

that the Oghuz knew little of Islam and attempted to Bead them the 

Koran and explain the rudiments of the faith to them. Later, when 

he reached the tents of Etrek, the Oghuz general, Ibn Fadlan 

presented letters urging Etrek to convert to Islam; the letters were 

from Nadhir al-Harami, who was traveling by another route. 

Etrek's response was not very satisfactory. He said to the 

interpreter: “I don't want to say anything until your return journey 

78



when I will write to the caliph and tell him what I have decided to 

do.” It isn't known what he eventually decided, but the final 

outcome was satisfactory. About 100 years later the Oghuz 

embraced Islam and became one of the most staunchly Muslim of 

the Turkish tribes. 

Moving northwest into the area between the Ural and the Volga 

rivers, Ibn Fadlan came into the territory of the Pechenegs, another 

Turkish tribe, and eventually, on May 12, 922, after nearly 11 

months of travel, reached the tents of the king of the Slavs and 

presented the caliphs letter. He also distributed gifts, including 

“scents, cloth and pearls intended for his wife.” 

During the following days, the Baghdad mission discussed religion - 

and money. The king wanted the caliph to give him money for a 

fortress as well as for a mosque. Ibn Fadlan pointed out that the 

country was rich. The king countered that money which was given 

him by the caliph would be blessed and the castle built with it 

would be sure of victory. They agreed to disagree. 

During this period, Ibn Fadlan also observed and explored the 

surroundings, and obviously believed in finding explanations for 

phenomena new to him. He was very much impressed by the 

Northern Lights, for example, and asked the king about them. “He 

maintained that his ancestors used to say: ‘They are the believing 

jinns and the infidel jinns; every night they fight and have done so 

since the Creation.’” 

In this land of the midnight sun, Ibn Fadlan was struck by the short 

Arctic nights - and the impact this had on the Muslim need to pray 

five times a day. 

“One day I went to my tent in order to talk with the king’s tailor, 

who was originally from Baghdad. We talked for less time than it 

takes to read a seventh of the Koran, while we waited for the call to 

evening prayer. Suddenly we heard the call and went out of the tent; 

day was breaking.” 

I said to the muezzin: “What prayer did you call?” 

79



“The dawn prayer”, he said. 

“And the evening prayer?” 

“We say it with the sunset one.” 

“And during the night?” 

“The night is as you see. It has been even shorter than tonight, for it 

has already begun to lengthen.” 

Ibn Fadlan goes on to give a great deal more interesting information 

on the country its flora and fauna, its social customs, the food and 

drink and dress of the various tribes and so on. His descriptions are 

extremely lively and his accuracy wherever it can be checked, 

amazing. Unlike later medieval travelers, whose accounts tend to 

run riot with implausible detail, Ibn Fadlan mentions only one 

marvel: the bones of a ‘giant’ - possibly the remains of a mammoth. 

But the most interesting sections of his chronicle deal with another 

people who traded with the Slavs: ‘the Rus’ - probably one of the 

Scandinavian tribes and in any case a tribe later involved in the 

founding of the city-states of Novgorod and Kiev, the heartland of 

Old Russia. The most famous of these tribes were the Vikings, who 

at that time were terrorizing the coasts of England and Ireland and 

even raiding as far as North Africa and the Mediterranean. 



By the time of Ibn Fadlans journey the Vikings were also trading 

fur, amber and other goods over a huge area of Europe. It is 

reasonably sure too that they were already sailing the Atlantic to the 

New World by 922; just last year, an amateur archaeologist, a British 

historian and a British numismatist identified a coin found in Maine 

in 1961 as an 11th-century Viking penny. By then too the Vikings 

had established themselves in Normandy - from where, as the 

Normans, they would invade England again in 1066 and, not much 

later, conquer Sicily and parts of Spain and Italy. Ibn Fadlans 

description of the Rus, however, is one of the few that treats them as 

traders rather than bloodthirsty raiders and was written just before 

the time of their greatest expansion. 

“I saw the Rus who had come to trade. I have never seen men with 

bodies as beautiful as theirs - they were like palm trees. They are fair 

and their skin white and red. They wear neither tunics nor kaftans, 

but the men have a garment which covers one side of their bodies 

80



and leaves one hand free. Each of them has an axe, a broadsword 

and a knife, and they are never without these things... Their swords 

have very broad blades, grooved, like the Frankish broadswords. 

From the tips of their fingers to their necks they are tattooed in green 

with trees, figures, and so on. "All of the women wear on their 

bosom a kind of box [perhaps the enormous embossed brooches 

which secured their dresses and cloaks] of iron, silver, copper, gold, or 

wood, depending upon the wealth of their husband and their social 

position. In each box is a circle to which a knife is attached, which 

hangs at their breast.” 

Like other writers after him, Ibn Fadlan was fascinated by Viking 

funerals and describes at length a dead chieftain who was laid in his 

longship, his sword at his side and all his worldly goods beside him; 

how his dogs, cattle, horses, and slave girls were sacrificed to keep 

him company; and finally how the boat and its contents were set on 

fire. When only ashes were left, they built a barrow “like a round 

hill, and in the center they set up a great tablet of wood with the 

name of the man and that of the king of the Rus; and then they went 

away.” 

Ibn Fadlans observant account agrees very well with other evidence 

about the Northmen but is much more vivid and detailed. As with 

the rest of his chronicle, his story recreates the barbarous splendour 

of life 1,000 years ago as seen through the eyes of a sophisticated 

diplomat from Baghdad - a man whose reactions were in many ways 

just like our own. 

81

Book Review 

White Lightning 

How the Scots and Irish created a 

Canadian Nation 

written by 

Ken McGoogan 

John W. Lavery 

8 

82

Book Review: White Lightning - Ken McGoogan 



Ken McGoogan’s latest book follows a run of superb titles from his 

restless pen or perhaps one should now use the phrase “restless 

laptop”. Titles such as, 50 Canadians who changed the world, How 

the Scots Invented Canada, Race to the Polar Sea, Ancient Mariner, 

Fatal Passage, Canada's Undeclared War, and the unforgettable 

Lady Franklin's Revenge. 

The subject of this book is close to home and still closer to his heart, 

published in 2015 it grabbed my attention from the get go with the 

thought provoking title of White Lightning/ How the Scots and the 

Irish created a Canadian Nation. 

It's a fascinating book in which he brings together the common 

ancestry of the Scottish and Irish peoples. Tracing personal stories 

to people who lived in County Kerry, Kintyre, Aran Islands, Isle of 

Skye and a myriad of other places throughout Ireland and Scotland. 

He explains his thesis, it begins with the double Diaspora and the 

two waves of immigration that arose as the result of Scotland's 

Highland clearances and Ireland's great Potato Famine, when as 

many as 2.5 million Irish souls left for America. Between the 1700s 

and the 1900s some 2 million Scots left their country for America. 

During this wave of immigration some 400,000 Scots went on to 

settle in Canada and Irish immigrants numbering 450,000 also 

making it their new home. 

He makes the point that these large numbers of Irish and Scottish 

immigrants arriving relatively early in the country's 'modern' 

history must have strongly influenced the shaping of the multidimensional 

Canada. Furthermore, he asserts that the ancestors of 

more than a quarter of the present population of Canada now at 35 

million, brought with them a collective cultural baggage, a mixture 

of history, values and a vision to the future. 

According to Canada's 2011 census he writes there are 4.7 million 

Canadians (14.3%) who claim Scottish ancestry, and 4.5 million 

who claim their Irish roots (13.7%). The Scottish and Irish Ancestry 

83

Book Review: White Lightning - Ken McGoogan 

together make up the largest minority of Canadians coming it at 

28%. 

It is from this background that the author takes on a most unique 

approach by which we should look into the great ancestral figures 

i.e. the men and woman who shaped Ireland's and Scotland's 

history. He skillfully blends the two strands of history, Scottish and 

Irish and achieves this by dividing the book into five parts each 

dealing a specific theme; Independence, Democracy, Pluralism, 

Audacity and Perseverance. 

In each he presents a limited biography of the most influential 

figures from Scottish and Irish history. Personally I loved the 

inclusion of Grace O'Malley better known as Granuaile 1530-1603, 

an Irish Pirate Queen, an amazing woman in a man's world in the 

Elizabethan era, a woman known for her audacity and perseverance. 

The figures that follow are a who's who in the history of Ireland 

and Scotland; Robert the Bruce, Theobald Wolfe Tone, Flora 

MacDonald, Robert Burns, Jonathan Swift, James Boswell, Walter 

Scott, Daniel O'Connell, Charles Stewart Parnell, Ernest 

Shackleton, Tom Crean, Michael Collins, James Joyce, Maria 

Edgeworth. 

Throughout the book I enjoyed the inclusion of black and white 

photographs of the areas in Ireland and Scotland which the author 

and his wife Sheena visited while writing this book, pictures which 

brought to life the history he writes of, and puts flesh on the bone. 

Overall a great read, where history past molds our present. It is very 

well researched and expresses Ken McGoogan's theory at a level 

that is easily grasped and hugely entertaining. If, as I do, you like to 

revisit certain books after you have read them, then this one is a 

keeper and one you will want to dip into again and again. 

84

"Once you have traveled, the voyage 

never ends, but is played out over and 

over again in the quietest chambers. The 

mind can never break off from the 

journey." 

Pat Conroy 

85

Contributors 

Credits: 

All articles and images are the copyright of the their 

respective authors. Ripcord Adventure Journal is grateful 

to all our writers and photographers for permission to 

publish their work. 

Caroline Stone's essay "Ibn Fadlan and the Midnight 

Sun", appeared on pages 2-3 of the March/April 1979 print 

edition of Saudi Aramco World. 

Kate Leeming, "Mali's Lifeline: Ségou to Timbuktu", is 

excerpted from Kate's most recent book, "Njinga", 

available from the author's website, www.kateleeming.com 

158 

86

Editorial Editorial Team 

Tim Lavery is the Director of the World Explorers Bureau, the global 

organisation for adventurers and explorers. 

Shane Dallas is a professional adventurer, travel blogger and speaker 

with an unquenchable passion for travel. 

John W. Lavery is an award winning songwriter, historian and 

entomologist. He co-founded Country Watch Ireland, the longest 

established entomological organisation in Ireland and has been 

published widely. 

Sophie Ibbotson is an orientalist by training, and an entrepreneur and 

writer by profession, Sophie broke the world altitude record for auto 

rickshaws in 2008 when she drove over the 15,397' Khunjerab Pass 

between Pakistan and China. Sophie is the Editor of Ripcord's Gear 

Guide edition 

Dr. Terry Sharrer is the Editor of Tagline (Medical Automation) and a 

former Curator at the Smithsonian. 

Paul Devaney's professional background is aerospace, he has climbed 6 

of the "Seven Summits" and received the first Charles Howard Bury 

Award on the recommendation of Apollo 11 Astronaut Michael Collins 

for his climbing efforts and his contribution to humanitarian relief in 

Nepal following the 2015 earthquake. 

87

Featured writer 

Jim Clash 

Jim Clash has given talks literally at both ends of the Earth – the 

Amundsen-Scott Station on the South Pole and a nuclear icebreaker 

at the North Pole. The seasoned Forbes adventure and business 

journalist speaks on motivation and risk assessment through his 

own exotic experiences. 

Clash is a long-time Fellow and Director at The Explorers Club. 

His adventures include a MiG-25 ride at Mach 2.6 to the edge of 

space; driving formula (Indy) race cars above 200 mph; climbing the 

Matterhorn and virgin peaks in Greenland and Antarctica; two visits 

to the North Pole (one included a swim without a wet suit); skiing 

to the South Pole; weightlessness training in an IL-76 over Russia; 

bull fighting with the PBR; bobsledding with the U.S. Olympic 

team; taking a bullet point-blank for a story on ballistics' clothing; 

high G-force flights with the Breitling Jet Team to prepare for his 

Virgin Galactic space ride. 

Clash has interviewed the late Neil Armstrong, Reinhold Messner, 

Chuck Yeager, Sir Roger Bannister, Buzz Aldrin, John Glenn, Elon 

Musk and Sir Edmund Hillary, among many other explorers. 

88

Featured writer 

Kate Leeming 

As an explorer/adventurer Kate has cycled the equivalent distance 

of twice around the world at the Equator. Her greatest achievements 

to date include: 

Breaking the Cycle Expedition – a ten month, 22,040km journey 

across Africa from Point des Almadies, Senegal to Cape Hafun, 

Puntland, Somalia in a continuous line. The article in this issue of 

RAJ comes from this expedition and is excerpted here from Kate's 

book "Njinga" which can be ordered from www.kateleeming.com 

The 25,000km Great Australian Cycle Expedition (The nine month 

journey included 7000km off-road on remote desert tracks. The 

most arduous part of this expedition was the first bicycle crossing of 

the Canning Stock Route (CSR) by a woman. The CSR is 1800km 

long with approximately 1000 sand dunes). 

The 13,400km Trans-Siberian Cycle Expedition. The aim of the five 

month 1993 expedition from St Petersburg to Vladivostok was to 

aid the children of Chernobyl (This is also believed to be the first 

unsupported bicycle crossing of the ‘new’ Russia by a woman). 

89

Publishers 

Ripcord is the adventure travel arm of Redpoint Resolutions, 

a travel risk and crisis response company specializing in 

comprehensive global travel solutions. They serve 

government agencies, corporations and organizations that 

require employees to travel or live abroad. The company is 

owned and operated by special operations veterans and 

physicians who practice wilderness medicine and understand 

the challenges of medical and security emergencies in remote 

environments. 

Ripcord’s global intelligence, evacuation services, essential 

benefits and 24/7 operations center has your back no matter 

where your adventures takes you. 

The World Explorers Bureau (WEB) is a speakers agency 

that represents 70+ explorers and extreme adventurers, men 

and women who have lived with cannibals, dived the deepest 

seas, rowed the oceans, cycled the globe, lived underwater, 

climbed the highest mountains, explored unmapped caves, 

walked, skied and cycled to the Poles, walked in space and 

continue to explore the unexplored. 

WEB Speakers inspire audiences around the world with 

captivating tales of their adventures encapsulating themes 

which include pushing boundaries, leadership, teamwork and 

motivation. 

90

“One final paragraph of advice: 

do not burn yourselves out. 

Be as I am - a reluctant 

enthusiast....a part-time 

crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. 

Save the other half of yourselves 

and your lives for pleasure and 

adventure.” 

Edward Abbey 

"Joy, Shipmates, Joy!" 

91

Published by Redpoint Resolutions & World Explorers Bureau 

www.ripcordadventurejournal.com

Ripcord Adventure Journal 2.1

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