Category: Reader’s Travel Tales

Traavel Articles submitted by various contributers

A Deadly Game Of Catch

A Deadly Game Of Catch

It was about three o’clock on a chilly morning and I was sitting in some bushes at the corner of a paddy field looking across into China from the Hong Kong side. The border was defined by a tall metal fence with razor wire at the top and apart from identifying the frontier, this impressive barrier was designed to prevent people from China making their way illegally into Hong Kong.

The year was 1980 and I was there with soldiers of The Royal Regiment of Wales to stop a large number of illegal immigrants crossing into the British colony of Hong Kong which had been under British control since 1842. The Chinese who wanted to come across were all poor with no work or very low wages under the communist regime and they saw a better life in capitalist and free Hong Kong. They knew that if they reached “home base” they would be eligible for free housing, medical care, schooling and financial support until they found a job. It was very enticing and huge numbers made an attempt, and although many were caught a good number succeeded. The television channels of Hong Kong could be seen across the border in China and to a poor Chinese farmer the apparently fabulous and flashy lifestyle of the Chinese in Hong Kong who all had cars, air conditioning and freedom was all very seductive.

The border runs for twenty miles across mainly flat land which is a mixture of farms and open countryside. Originally built in 1952 to stop gun smuggling during the time of the Korean War it was reinforced by the erection of a much stronger fence or wall in 1962 as thousands of Chinese were trying to cross into Hong Kong each day. By the time we were sent there the fence was tall and effective and with a single lane tarmac road running beside it which allowed us to drive quickly along from one end of our sector to the other. While President Trump is criticised for building a fence to keep out illegal immigrants crossing from Mexico, the British had built their fence decades before to keep the Chinese out.

We were based in an old, very old, army camp near the town of Lo Wu which was a short drive from the border fence. Each evening at around dusk lorries and Land Rovers would take out soldiers wearing their camouflage clothing and with running shoes rather than heavy boots. They would be dropped off in groups of four at intervals along the fence. With a large flask of coffee, they would wait throughout the hours of darkness to catch any illegal immigrants that they found climbing over the fence. The one thing that gave us a big advantage over the illegals was that the soldiers were issued with night viewing devices, called at that time “starlight scopes”. These basically allowed us to see in the dark and so we could pick out any individuals approaching the fence before they started to climb over. This enabled us to move stealthily into a position where we could catch them once they landed on our side. If it had been a game, it would have been unfair, but this was no cat and mouse game this was deadly serious.

The illegals would usually arrive in ones and twos but sometimes a whole family group with children would arrive and attempt to climb over. They had very few possessions. Some had a magic ointment Tiger Balm, to soothe their aches and pains, others had family photographs and a number were carrying drugs such as hashish to ease their discomfort. When caught they would be handcuffed and taken by vehicle to the nearest police station and handed over to the Hong Kong police. The following day they would be put on a train and sent back to China. While we imagined that they would be interrogated and punished by the communist regime for their escape efforts this was not the case as we sometimes caught the same people coming over the fence a few days later. On an average night, we caught between five and twenty illegals in my sector alone and that was just a 4 four mile stretch of the border. The majority gave up quietly. They were mostly very tired and malnourished, but a few ran for it though we soon caught them. These were Welsh soldiers and rugby tackles were learnt in their youth.

One distressing incident, which has remained with me, was of a family of five who attempted to cross the fence. The father went first with the eldest child, a teenage daughter, while the mother waited on the Chinese side until they were safely over. But the father and daughter were quickly caught and taken away leaving the remainder of the family on the far side. We never knew what happened to them, but it was very sad to see a family split like that.

In 1997 Hong Kong was transferred to China after 156 years of British rule. The border remained a controlled area but as Hong Kong became part of China there was no longer any incentive for people to cross illegally and the border became the responsibility of the civil police.

 

 

Offa’s Dyke To Cardigan Bay

Offa’s Dyke To Cardigan Bay

In the 1960s, the war correspondent and journalist Wynford Vaughan Thomas was persuaded by the BBC to climb on a horse and ride from Pembrokeshire to North Wales, with no previous experience. He described the journey in “Madly in all Directions” in 1967, with an account superbly interspersed with personal anecdotes from his life and work, and the many people he had met, interviewed and befriended.

I came across the book many years ago, and was fascinated by the idea of riding across Wales, but felt that it would probably be just a life-long dream. In 2020, my daughter and I rode from the English border to Borth in just over 5 days, covering 100 miles, together with three like-minded people, and lived the dream.

We drove from home early on a Sunday morning past Storey Arms, where the car park was already full, and a line of people could be seen on the way up to Pen y Fan. The holiday invasion of Wales during the summer had flooded every popular tourist spot, but still the majority of people headed for the well-known places, and I wondered how busy it would be in mid-Wales. I need not have worried.

There were 5 of us in the group, led by an experienced guide with maps and instructions. We carried all our luggage with us in saddlebags. The route ran from Clyro over the Begwns to Builth Wells, then across the edge of the Epynt, coming down to Abergwesyn. From there we rode over the Cambrians, past Strata Florida to Pontrhydfendigaid, and then to Ponterwyd via Devil’s Bridge. Then we headed west for the coast, staying in Aberystwyth, and rode up the beach to Borth and Ynaslas on the last day. As we left Aberystwyth, a family from London who were there on holiday stared at us in amazement. They had never seen a horse before! We had one rather wet day, but otherwise the weather was superb. Accomodation in country inns had been arranged for us at the end of each day, and the horses were left in a field of lush grass nearby.

Mid-Wales is not really dramatic or spectacular, but it is stunningly beautiful and so peaceful, with only sheep, skylarks, buzzards and kites for company. We rode on all types of terrain, country lanes, grass tracks, rough trackways, old drovers’ roads, under fallen trees, through a lot of water and across a few streams and rivers, and across a railway line. We stopped for the horses to drink from time to time, trying to find nice clean water, although horses are not very fussy about what they drink. Having drunk their fill, they like to splash with their hooves perhaps to cool off their feet? On some steep downhill stretches, we walked the horses for safety and to stretch our legs, and we stopped for a picnic lunch each day. The horses were Welsh cobs, not very large, but known for their strength and stamina, and always incredibly energetic and well-behaved.

The trip was an adventure to start with, but disaster struck on the third day. Our guide had eaten something that did not agree with her and was not well at all, and the stables owner rang us the next morning to say that he was very sorry, but we would have to cancel the rest of the journey. We were extremely disappointed, especially my daughter, but we held a quick emergency meeting, and asked the owner if he would allow us to continue un-guided. To my surprise, he said yes, so we took the maps and instructions from our poor guide, and carried on. Some of the navigation, especially through forestry, was not straightforward, but with great teamwork, supported by some modern GPS technology, we managed to avoid getting lost.

By the end of the ride, we were all friends for life, so we have arranged to do another ride next year!

 

 

1989 – Pre-Covid Reminiscence

Happy Photographs From The Summer Of 1989

For seventeen years I was fortunate to be a class teacher in Gwenfo Church in Wales Primary School and for many of those years I was the class teacher of Year Three , seven and eight year olds. These happy photographs were taken in the summer of 1989. For three or four years running I was able to take my class on a trip to New Wallace Farm in Wenvoe. John Thomas was the farmer and he was delighted with the idea of showing the children around his farm. It reminded him of when he was a pupil in the old village school and they would be taken on nature walks. Lesley Opie often helped out on these visits and she discovered these photos. For the first two visits we walked the class to the entrance of the Golf Club road where Colin Webb would meet us with a tractor and a large trailer with hay bales down the middle. There was great excitement as the children climbed up on the trailer. We went along past the entrance of the Golf Club and out to New Wallace Farm. John Thomas met us and climbed up on the tractor. We travelled around many of the fields while the children were told about the beef cattle and sheep. It was often a bumpy ride which made it more exciting. On our return to the farmyard the children were treated to orange squash and biscuits while they sat on hay bales in one of the barns. John Thomas’s wife Iris provided the refreshments which was very kind.

 

We were then taken back to the main road and then we walked back to school. The children wrote thank you letters to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. One year Mr. Thomas had trouble with his tractor and so that the children would not be disappointed Mr. David Phillips of Vishwell Farm came all the way to school to pick up the children with his tractor and trailer and took us out to New Wallace. Happy days! Lesley Opie and I have put our heads together and come up with the names of some of the children in the photos. Theo Davies, Helen Anning, Ben Gillespie, Jane Hardwick, Katy Fundell, Alistair Matheson, Richard Griffiths, Torsten Patel, Joseph McCann, Nicola David, Sam Hooper, Bethan Rees, Christina Evans, Michael, Naomi Davies and Susan Chaplin. Also in the photo are Lesley Opie, John Thomas and me Sandra Jones

 

 

Sunshine and Death

SUNSHINE AND DEATH

We were having an enjoyable morning skiing in Eastern Turkey. We were training to climb Mount Ararat on skis, and we needed to hone our skills and improve our fitness in the mountains. Earlier that morning, we had enjoyed a good breakfast in our hotel in Erzurum, a historic city on the Anatolian spice route. It was a short ride to the ski resort of Palandoken and on arrival our minibus parked at the end of the road just where the snow began to cover it.

We took our skis and rucksacks and strode over to the snow and clipped into our touring skis. We were using artificial skins which stick to the base of the ski which allows you to walk uphill on snow. Once everyone was ready, we split into three groups of five or six people and set off making tracks up the nearest hill. It was warm work in the sunshine, and I undid my jacket to increase the ventilation. It was early March and spring was in the air.

As we ascended a wide snow slope our small group were close together skiing in the tracks of the leader. To our surprise, we saw a chimney sticking up out of the snow and smoke was belching out of it. Some yards below the chimney we saw a small opening, the size of a little door, with a blanket covering it. At the sound of our voices, a child of about six appeared and she was as surprised to see us as we were to see her. Soon her mother came out and greeted us, but it did not take long to realise that there was a serious language barrier. That did not deter her, and she keenly beckoned us into her home. We kicked off our skis and one or two at a time we crouched down to enter. The main space was carpeted and of a good size with chairs and a table. A cooking area was at the rear with a hot stove that was the source of the smoking chimney. We declined the kind offer of a cup of tea and, giving sweets to the daughter, we resumed our travel upwards.

At the crest of the hill, we looked down to the road below and the small parking area where our buses were waiting for us. We removed our skis and took off the skins in readiness for a quick ski back to the road-head and the appealing prospect of some lunch. The other two groups were close to us but set off first, and we followed them down. It was steep but not steep enough to be challenging. Our group were all skiing down taking their own routes but staying fairly close together. Richard and Robert were slightly below and to the right, but I had stopped with our guides, David and Alisdair, as we looked for the best route to take for the last few turns of our descent.

Then I heard the dreaded word AVALANCHE shouted out by David. I turned around and looked uphill to see the whole hillside moving down above us. Quick as a flash David had reached down and taken off his skis – the best thing to do if caught in an avalanche. I had a fleeting go at unclipping my bindings, but they did not release so I tried to ski sideways and out of the moving snow. We were now on a moving carpet of snow and Alisdair was below me and slightly to my right. In seconds I had been knocked over by the wall of snow and was now falling, cartwheeling downhill. A feeling of dread overcame me as my movement stopped. I could see nothing and the weight of a ton of snow constricted my chest. Breathing was very difficult. Then to my surprise, the snow tomb moved again, and I felt I was going over a small cliff and falling – then it finally stopped. I could not move a muscle; my hands were outstretched in the swimming position and my sunglasses were stuck in my mouth. The water bladder in my rucksack was emptying its contents down my neck as the valve had come off. I could barely breathe. All was very still and quiet. I made a determined effort to breathe slowly and shallowly, to stay calm and to stay alive. Suffocation is the first killer.

After what seemed like ten minutes, I heard a voice; Richard and Robert were looking for me with their electronic avalanche trackers and soon they were digging above me with their snow shovels. I yelled to encourage them and quickly they dug down to me and cleared an airway to my mouth. But once they found I was alive and breathing they went off to look for Alistair who was also buried.

They soon found him nearby, but he was buried deeper. With the help of soldiers from the nearby army post, they dug him out and tried to resuscitate him, but it turned out that he had died instantly of traumatic asphyxiation. It took ages to dig me out, but I was on my feet as they carried Alasdair down to the road.

After giving a statement to a kindly young police officer I was given a lift back to our hotel and the room I had been sharing with Alastair. His folded silk pyjamas were poignantly laid on his pillow. As I sat on my bed gathering myself together Sally appeared at the door with a bottle of schnapps. She said, “I think you need some of this!” and asked if she could be of help. I asked her to pack Alisdair’s stuff up in a bag and took a long grateful swig of the cold Swiss schnapps.

 

 

How Not To Climb A Mountain In Africa

How Not To Climb A Mountain In Africa

I’ve so enjoyed reading about Lynne’s successful mountaineering exploits in recent editions of ‘What’s On’ that I’ve decided to (figuratively) put pen to paper to tell you about a spectacular failure.

I have to take you, dear reader, back to East Africa where Lynne had her successes on Mounts Kenya and Kilimanjaro before she went further afield to the Himalayas.

The failed adventure in which I was initially a willing participant was to scale Mount Meru, a more modest 4,562 meters high lump of a collapsed former volcano which is located in northern Tanzania, a distance of some 70 kilometres from the aforesaid Kilimanjaro which peaks at some 5,895 metres.

 

At this point some background context would be useful. The year is 1964 and the country, then called Tanganyika, had gained independence from the British a year or so previously. I was with a group of some 40 young people. A week or so previously we had arrived at an agricultural training school in the town of Arusha, to spend three weeks on an intensive Kiswahili language learning course prior to being dispersed across the new nation as volunteers engaged in diverse development related activities.

Mount Meru, some 20 miles distant, loomed large behind the school. Of course we were all young and enthusiastic and all equally determined to pack as much of Africa as possible into our time there.

The plan was apparently simple, and we were advised by our teacher it would be as follows: be driven to the foot of the mountain on a Saturday morning, walk up towards the summit all day following a track through the lush tropical forest, find a hut to stay the night and on the Sunday morning strike off to the summit on the now gravelly / rocky path.

So, on that fateful Saturday morning we all set off aboard the school’s ex-army canvas sided flat bed lorry with a lot more enthusiasm than we had suitable equipment or preparation.

The first bit of the ascent was easy as we ambled through the coffee plantations on the lower slopes as we exchanged our newly learned greetings of “Jambos” and “Habari ganis” and “Habari za kazi” with the farmers tending their coffee vines on their “shambas”. Leaving the farms, the ascent started to get steeper and the surrounding vegetation somewhat denser, but we were following a sort of path and the spirits were high.

Then we found to our dismay that we were no longer following a path. But what could go wrong? As long as we kept ascending we would be going in the right direction! Remember, the forest was fairly dense and we didn’t really have a clue as to the direction we should be going. Apart from “up”. But as we progressed “up”, we would be met by a steep “down” into one of the many ravines that radiated out from the peak. And so on and on until both darkness and exhaustion overtook us without the possibility of reaching either the elusive hut or indeed any other semblance of shelter.

So, somewhat dejected, we decided to do the best we could to spend the night in the forest, lulled into a fitful sleep by serenading sounds of Africa all around us, only to be sharply awakened by various scary and unidentified animal noises.

We survived the night and next morning we started to retrace our steps back towards civilisation, up and down again across the steep ravines. Eventually we emerged from the forest into the coffee growing “shambas” to be greeted by the farmers with a cheery “Habari za safiri?” (How is the journey?). East African polite convention dictates that a negative answer is not given to such a request for news and the correct response is always “Nzuri sana” (Very good indeed). Whereas, under our breaths, we were actually saying “Mbaya kabisa” (As bad as it can get)!

So, late that Sunday evening we returned to the school, footsore, tired, starving, but happy in the knowledge that in our first week in Africa we had not only been lost in the forest, but we had been able to practice some of our newly acquired Kiswahili in real life situations!

As an end piece I would add that a year or so later I did climb to Gilman’s Point on Kilimanjaro as part of a properly resourced “expedition”. On reaching that summit I had never been as cold and tired as I was that day, nor in my subsequent 55 years. In those days before the onset of climate change there was certainly a lot more snow and ice on the summit than is present today.

A further footnote. In preparing for this piece, I did a bit of googling and found the following:

Mount Meru is a serious three to four-day trek and although it is often used as a practice run by those hoping to summit Kilimanjaro, the smaller mountain is actually the more technical. A guide is mandatory on every trek and there is only one official route up to the summit. The route is well marked with huts along the way offering simple, comfortable beds. Unofficial routes on the west and northern sides of the mountain are illegal. Acclimatization is important, and while you won’t need oxygen, spending at least a few days at altitude before attempting the climb is highly recommended.

Well, in the light of this, we never stood a chance did we?

“Time Traveller”

 

 

My Trip To Tanzania

My Trip To Tanzania

Hi! Hope everyone’s well.

Just wanted to say a thank you once again to everyone that supported me in the run up to my trip to Tanzania. I came back a month earlier than planned because of the current situation with Covid 19, however the month and a half that I did spend out there was an amazing experience which I enjoyed very much.

 

Whilst on the environmental stage of the expedition, where we were planting trees so that a small village could have sustainable resources for the future, I stayed with a Tanzanian family. Seeing how the ways of life differ first hand has really humbled me and made me appreciate what my life is like. I missed out on the section of the trip where we would have built a sanitation block for a primary school. However, Raleigh International are giving me the chance to return this time next year and finish the expedition, which is great.

Thanks once again, I hope everyone has a lovely rest of the summer.

 

Jacob

 

 

About Brass Monkeys

DID YOU KNOW About Brass Monkeys?

In the heyday of sailing ships, all war ships and many freighters carried iron cannons. Those cannons fired round iron cannon balls. It was necessary to keep a good supply near the cannon. However, to prevent them from rolling about the deck, the best storage method devised was a square-based pyramid with one ball on top, resting on four resting on nine, which rested on sixteen. Thus, a supply of 30 cannon balls could be stacked in a small area right next to the cannon. The ‘pyramid’ was stored on a metal plate called a ‘Monkey’ with 16 round indentations. However, if this plate were made of iron, the iron balls would quickly rust to it. The solution to the rusting problem was to make ‘Brass Monkeys.’ Brass contracts much more and much faster than iron when chilled. Consequently, when the temperature dropped too far, the brass indentations would shrink so much that the iron cannonballs would come right off the monkey; Thus, it was quite literally, ‘Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.’

 

A Visit To A Museum And A Hard Day’s Night

A VISIT TO A MUSEUM AND A HARD DAY’S NIGHT

We had started out rather late as the museum did not open early. It was a small museum on the shore of a Norwegian fjord, and it celebrated the heroism of a local resistance fighter who opposed the Nazi invasion of his homeland in 1940. After a fascinating look around the many and poignant exhibits, we walked with our skis and rucksacks to the nearby jetty where a boat was waiting to ferry us across the cold fjord to the opposite bank.

The crossing in a high-speed boat, provided by the Norwegian Marines, did not take long and we quickly disembarked near a small wooden hut where one of the resistance fighters had spent many weeks hiding during the war. He had frostbite in the unheated hut and to avoid gangrene, which he knew would kill him, he cut off his black fingers with a penknife. We silently paid tribute to such bravery before hoisting our rucksacks, clicking into our ski bindings, and moving off across the fresh snow.

Soon we were pushing our way up the steep hillside through young silver birch trees; they made the going tough. After fighting our way through the dense trees, we were hot and sweaty but at least we could now press on to ascend a distant ridge and drop down to a small village where we were to spend the night sleeping in the gym of a school. After the wood, the ascent steepened and we soon found ourselves in a wide gully down which a stream had been flowing, but now in March, it was just a mass of ice covering the rocks. This required care as a slip would have sent me hurtling down from ledge to ledge to the bottom which was well over one hundred feet below. A couple of us took off their skis while others side stepped up the snow which covered the ice. It was very slow going.

At last, the small party was assembled at the top of the gully and before us was a gentler snowfield that led to the distant ridge. It was now late afternoon and while waiting for the last of the party to catch up we dug a hole in the snow to check on the profile and the stability of the crust. The snow layers looked stable and when the last person arrived, we pushed on to the ridge. The shadow of the skier in front was long now and I realised we were rather late to be on the ridge.

It was downhill from the ridge to the valley below, an easy run on skis and our spirits were high. The maps did not clearly show the best line to take so we skied down only to find that we were at the top of a high cliff. This was frustrating and time-consuming as we had to take our skis off – put the skins back under them which allowed us to ski back up to the ridge. After we had repeated this exercise a few times it was pitch black, and we were navigating with head torches, map and compass. The cold made replacing batteries in head torches difficult as our fingers were frozen.

By about one o’clock in the morning, we were tired and unable to find a suitable route down. It was bitterly cold, and the wind was strong. I decided we had better spend the night where we were, in relative safety. So, we decided to dig two snow holes in the steep bank, each one would take 3 of us. We removed our skis and took shovels and snow saws from our packs and began to dig fast which kept us warm. After forty minutes the small caves in the bank of snow were big enough and we squeezed in, blocking the entry hole with the largest rucksack once we were all inside. The change was dramatic as suddenly there was no howling wind and by the light of our head torches, we settled down like sardines to try and sleep – I was exhausted.

I tossed and turned but being in the middle of the three of us I was probably the warmest. After a few hours, I moved the rucksack from the door and found that dawn was breaking. So, I went out and stood looking at the drop below us and realised how lucky we had been to stop where we did. I tried to make a call on my mobile phone, but my shivering fingers could not hit the keys because of the cold.

Just then I saw a flashing light, a strobe, miles away down the valley. It had to be a helicopter looking for us as we were overdue, but it quickly disappeared. Minutes later a crewman appeared on foot as the helicopter had carefully followed our ski tracks and landed out of sight above us. Wearing a flying helmet, overalls and life jacket he looked like someone from another world. He asked if we were all OK and whether we would need a lift off the mountain? I explained that we were British and fine thank you, but the offer of a lift was too good to refuse.

In a very short time, the six of us were in the big noisy smelly beast and just a few minutes later we landed at the school, thanked the crew profusely, and soon we were asleep in our bags on the floor of the gym. It had been a night to remember.

Kindly contributed by a Wenvoe resident

 

 

Walk Leader’s Adventures

Walk Leader’s Adventures

Boris and Mark urged and encouraged people to “Stay Local” in the early days of the lockdown due to the Coronavirus. As the lockdown is eased and people are actively being persuaded to have a staycation, it seems appropriate to leave Mt Kenya, Mt Kilimanjaro and the Himalayas to describe a more local adventure…on Mt Snowdon.

Snowdon (Yr Wyddfa in Welsh) is the highest mountain in Wales and England (1085m) and can offer views of Pembrokeshire, Anglesey and Ireland on a clear day. On my many ascents, I have never been fortunate to see that far!

The first recorded ascent of Snowdon was by Thomas Johnson in 1639. My plan was to take a group of 15 European students from an English Language summer school to follow in Johnson’s footsteps. The 16-18 year old students had come to a Language school in Shropshire for a month, to improve their English. They did English language activities in the mornings and sports and cultural activities and visits in the afternoon. As the Sports teacher, I decided to offer the students the opportunity to experience Welsh culture and challenge themselves to climb in the wild and magnificent Snowdonia landscape.

An excited and excitable group set off from the Language school. The mini bus was filled with a reverberation of cheerful students making themselves understood in an assortment of languages. On board we had students from Spain, France, Portugal, Germany, Italy, Sweden, Denmark: and they were determined to share their thoughts and communicate!

We arrived at the Pen y Pass car park ready for the 6 hours return journey to the peak and back. We were well prepared: the route had been planned, weather forecast had been checked and the students had appropriate footwear and equipment. Food, water, first aid kits, whistles and insulated foil blankets were carried in small rucksacks. We were ready for any eventuality! Or so we thought!

We set off along the Miners track. The Miners Path was built to carry copper from the Britannia Copper Works near Llyn Glaslyn to Pen y Pass, where it was transported to Caernarfon. Remains of the mining works could be seen as we steadily climbed. The views were glorious as the sun shone down on green grassy hillsides and the water sparkled as we passed by the lakes of Llyn Teyrn, across Y Cob Causeway to Llyn Llydaw. Chatter had changed to a hum as the climbing took its toil on the slope near Llyn Glaslyn. We stopped for lunch.

Mountain weather can be unpredictable and changeable. And change came. What had started off

as a walk under sunny, blue skies changed rapidly as we ate lunch into a “white out”. Thick mist descended upon us and it was impossible to see the whole party even though we were tightly packed onto the hillside above the lake, which was now invisible to us, concealed by the fog. I was anxious and felt apprehensive about continuing as I knew there was a steep and tricky climb ahead, often requiring the use of hands. I was in a dilemma; should I descend?

And then….out of the mist emerged a mountain guide and his sheep dog….He asked if everything was going okay. I explained how I was in a predicament about continuing the climb. The students were keen to continue but not knowing how bad the visibility was up ahead, I did not want to put anyone at risk. The guide then offered to take us to the summit, and return us to the start of the climb. What a hero!!

In very poor visibility, we followed the guide and his dog up the zig zags to Bwlch Glas and reached the summit after a further gentle walk. There was no view of Ireland or Pembroke to greet us, but the students congratulated each other in a multitude of languages and took numerous pictures of themselves with the dog.

As we descended the Pyg track and reached Bwlch y Moch, the mist lifted and we were treated to splendid views down the Llanberis pass. When we reached the mini bus, the guide left us. The students thought I had arranged for the guide and the dog to guide us …..and I am sure their adventure on Snowdon has passed into English Language Schools Folklore.

When we do meet again at Barry Island or Cosmeston on our Living with Cancer walk or Carers walk, I promise that if a mist descends I will get you back to the car park! I hope to see you soon on a walk. Valeways are expecting to restart their led walks in mid August, so check out the programme on their website.

 

 

Vale For Africa Eyecare Trip 2018

VALE FOR AFRICA EYECARE TRIP 2018

It was through my work that I first heard of local charity Vale for Africa and of their annual trip to Uganda. Vale for Africa works with a local African charity/NGO called ACET, to improve healthcare and education in the Tororo district of eastern Uganda.

They say it is good to push ourselves out of our comfort zone, and so it was that I signed up to be part of the 2018 team. The trip takes place at the end of August. By February our team members had all been confirmed and 6 months of planning began. Our team consisted of 5 working optometrists, alongside local retired optometrist Ted Arbuthnot and his wife, retired GP Dr Hilary Bugler. A week before the trip we gathered at Ted and Hilary’s home to distribute the kit/equipment, paperwork, and gifts/t-shirts to distribute in Tororo. I did return home that day with a full suitcase and wondered where I was putting my ‘personal’ gear – packing lightly is not one of my strengths!

We gathered at Cardiff airport on Friday 24th August, brimming with excitement and also a few nerves. The journey went smoothly; two flights and a few films later, we touched down in Entebbe airport. It would not be possible to reach Tororo that same day and so we spent one night in Uganda’s capital, Kampala. An early start the next morning allowed us to break our journey at Jinja ‘the source of the Nile’, to take in some amazing African wildlife. By late afternoon on Sunday 26th August we reached Tororo town and had our first glimpse of the distinctive Tororo Rock.

Our accommodation for the week was at the Benedictine Nunnery Although basic, it was comfortable and a welcome peaceful haven at the end of each day. An impressive thunderstorm and the resulting power cut on that first night did make me wonder what the next few days would bring!

The work started in earnest the next morning. The project relies on working with a team of local volunteers who are invaluable; some carrying out some ‘pre-screening’ checking of vision and some helping us with translation and giving patient instructions. These volunteers are known as the Visual Acuity Testers (VATs).

Most have been involved with the project for several years. They now know well what needs to be done to help the clinics run smoothly. The first morning was run as a refresher training session for the VATs, before our first clinics in the afternoon.

In our clinics we had anyone and everyone from babes in arms to a lady whose age on her paperwork simply read ‘80+’. The vast majority of these patients would never have seen a doctor, dentist or optometrist before in their lives.

It is difficult to explain just how different the clinics are from those at home, where we are all very lucky to have the latest technology to help us in our work.

At home I might see an average of 10-12 patients a day; we averaged 40 a day in Tororo.

Each morning the team of VATs had often been there an hour or two ahead of us, setting up what they could in advance – each day my buddy Joseph would already have hung some makeshift curtains in whatever room we were to be based in, as too much light makes it difficult to examine inside the eyes.

The other thing I initially found somewhat disconcerting but soon got used to was ‘performing’ in front of an audience. At one of the schools we were based at, Joseph ushered me into ‘our’ room to be greeted by at least 20 pairs of eyes watching my every move as I unpacked for the day. There were school benches that had all been pushed to the side of the room, so of course they would sit there to wait their turn.

As expected, we saw a wide range of eye conditions. For many this meant their first pair of glasses – and for several hundred people a simple pair of reading glasses would be life changing. We saw plenty of other ‘interesting’ things but, unexpectedly, it was these people whose lives could be changed by a £3 pair of reading glasses that touched me most of all. We helped a seamstress and a local government worker who had given up work because of their ‘poor vision’ and would now be able to carry on working for perhaps another 10 years.

In Tororo town is the Benedictine Eye Hospital, to which we could refer patients who needed treatment including cataract surgery (and Vale for Africa covers the cost of the surgery for these patients) and eyedrops for the treatment of Glaucoma.

In total between our team of 5 we saw just over 700 patients, almost 100 of whom needed cataract surgery. This may seem a drop in the ocean compared to Uganda’s population of 42 million, but you couldn’t help but feel we really were making a difference to those people we saw.

On the final night we were treated to a wonderful evening with those we had worked with during the week, with a very fine meal and some amazing African dancing – a memorable way to round off the trip. We set off early the next morning to begin our long journey home from Tororo to Entebbe airport and on to Wales. I was coming home tired, but with wonderful memories, new friendships, and a little piece of Tororo and its wonderful people in my heart.

The 2020 trip has, like so many other events, sadly been cancelled, but I very much hope to be on that plane to Entebbe again in 2021. If anyone would like to know more about Vale for Africa and the work they do take a look at www.valeforafrica.org.uk where you can find a donation link and more information on how to get involved.

Dawn Saville

 

 

1 2 3 4 5