Esther Kokmeijer

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/// From the book “A summary of the world” – Esther Kokmeijer (English) ///

TO THE GEOGRAPHICAL CENTRE OF AFRICA
Esther Kokmeijer (1977)

We are in Bangui, the capital of the Central African Republic (CAR), waiting for transportation to Dekoa. Dekoa is approx. fifty kilometres away from the geographical centre of Africa. Getting there is going to be very difficult; the roads are poor and not asphalted. There is also very little traffic, just one lorry a day. There is no public transport in CAR.
After a long wait, a large drop-side lorry pulls up. Our luggage gets thrown into the open trailer and we climb over the railing to join some seventy others and find a ‘seat’ amid heaps of luggage, bags of rice and chickens. As we near a checkpoint all the men climb out, the women and children are allowed to stay put. Women don’t make war. The road soon turns into a dirt track full of deep ruts caused by erosion. In the rain season the track turns into a river. Now, in the dry season, quite a thick layer of sandy dust has already settled on my skin. A woman gives me a scarf to cover my head as all the other women have done. Rats, deer legs and porcupines, it all passes by and it’s all for sale. The woman next to me buys a dead rat from a five-year-old boy. She puts it by my feet along with the rest of her collection of dead animals. Every now and then a surly soldier on top of the driver’s cabin shoots into the air to scare off the bandits. The passengers in the trailer cheer loudly in response. After a while, I ask him if I can join him up there; it’s a great position with fantastic views, much less dust, and much more leg room. A woman travelling on top of the truck is unheard of, of course, and my climbing up again gives rise to cheering. When we pass through villages, bags of food, letters and other things are thrown out of the lorry, and someone shouts the name of the person it’s for. After ten hours on this bumpy road, averaging twenty kilometres an hour, we arrive in Dekoa. We go to the mission, where four Rwandan nuns live.

Life has been extremely hard in Dekoa since the coup six months ago. There is no telephone, and no electricity. All information about Dekoa was lost in the fires in the government buildings. Many of the buildings look dilapidated, the doors and windows having been stolen along with the entire contents. The same happened to the Chief of the Gendarmerie who has since tried to patch up his house himself by painting the walls and hanging rugs in the open windows and doorways. He’ll try to find some means of transport for us to travel to the geographical centre tomorrow. He finds it in the form of two mopeds; there are no cars in or around Dekoa. We dine with the nuns. The atmosphere is nothing like what I had expected of dinner with nuns. They are very funny and don’t stop chatting. And the food is anything but plain and simple. The table is laden with a variety of dishes: potatoes, rice, spaghetti, cassava, vegetables, meats, etc. Despite the fact that there seems to be so little choice in Dekoa itself. The nuns are obviously well off, or is it because we’re there?

As the crow flies, it’s only 46 kilometres from Dekoa to the geographical centre of Africa. The mopeds will take us a long way along the track that leads towards the geographical centre but at some stage we’ll have to go into the forest for the last few kilometres. Yesterday the Chief of the Gendarmerie told us two armed soldiers would be accompanying us. ‘It’s dangerous’, he explained. Today it would appear the situation is not so dangerous after all; our guide Demina is a small man and his only weapon a machete. He straps our luggage onto the back of his moped together with a cycle pump. Gijs and I take the other moped. I fit my GPS to the headlamp. The Chief and half his police force are there to wave us off.

It feels good to know that we are getting closer and closer to the geographical centre of Africa. I feel the wind in my hair. I even almost forget the steel bars I’m sitting on, which become increasingly painful with every bump. It is dreadfully hot, my face not even cooled by the rush of air as we speed along. We occasionally pass a forest fire and consequently a wave of unbearable heat. The devastating noise of the heaving trees and burning cane makes me shudder.

Eighteen kilometres further on we arrive at Daya, a little village where everyone is drunk on palm wine. When we stop we are overwhelmed by dozens of men all talking at once, most of them not even in French but in Sango, which we do not understand. Luckily Demina can help us translate what is being said, although his French isn’t much better than ours. It is a chaos of miscommunication. The local population of Daya simply cannot comprehend why two white people should suddenly come riding into their village on a moped. The village ‘doctor’, the most inebriated of them all, passionately tries to convince of us of how important he is. I’m really not in the mood for this and try to sneak away. He notices and snaps: ‘Sit down, I’m talking!’ No matter what your ailment, his medicine is palm wine and the entire village appears to be ill. We manage to break away and continue our journey. This part of the CAR is referred to as savannah but it is nevertheless fairly densely forested. Here you can find all the tropical plants you could possibly hope to find at your local garden centre, but then the mega-sized varieties. I watch the GPS with nervous excitement, waiting for the moment that the distance to the geographical centre stops decreasing and starts to increase again. That moment occurs simultaneously with our arrival in the village of Girkombo.

Girkombo is a tiny village with just 53 inhabitants who came here from Bouca in search of fertile land four years ago. When I ask if they plan to stay, the village chief says: ‘Till the day we die.’ A promise nobody has yet kept. It is a village without a graveyard, a village without a past. The romantic settlement is exactly as I used to imagine as a child, and used to build with straw, branches and wooden building blocks. The houses, henhouses, dove till and fences were all made of natural forest materials. Wooden benches in the sand and a gong -the metal wheel rim off a lorry- go together to form the local church. There is no money for a bible. Water has to be collected from the nearest spring a few hundred metres walk away. The place is full of beautiful butterflies. Luckily, the people here have not been at the palm wine yet, which makes it a quiet, peace-loving village. All they have to eat is sesame seeds, cassava and the occasional egg. There is no more now, and there never will be. There is no money, there is no means of transportation and the next village is thirty kilometres away. It sounds idyllic doesn’t it, a self-sufficient village? Health is the biggest worry, though. The romance soon disappears if you’re taken ill. The children have worms and their legs and feet are covered in unsightly blemishes and sores. The villagers nevertheless do their best to appear happy and offer us a very warm welcome. The children have never seen white people before. One by one they hide behind their parents and start to cry. The adults find this highly amusing and laugh at their children. After a few minutes curiosity gets the better of them and some of them even dare come and shake hands. Once we have met everyone in the village we want to press on as soon as we can, in the hope of reaching the geographical centre before sunset. Much to our surprise, we have only another 4080 metres of forest to cover, as the crow flies.

We tell Demina that we must head into the forest now and intend to spend the night at the geographical centre. He doesn’t understand a bit of it, the Chief hadn’t said anything about that. The prospect doesn’t exactly fill him with joy either. Luckily, there is a man from Girkombo, Ngaté, who knows the area well and dashes home straight away to fetch his gun and snuff. As soon as we have put the mopeds away in a hut, Demina decides to come with us after all. We occasionally have to steer away from the geographical centre to avoid very dense sections of the forest. Suddenly we hear a roll of drums and singing. A nomad woman, her two daughters and three donkeys are coming towards us. They vanish again as quickly as they appeared. It is very exciting to be this close to my target and to know that very little can go wrong now. My musings are harshly interrupted when I almost step on a snake that was too lazy to get out of the way. After just an hour and a half and very few problems, we come to the last hundred metres.

Then, still holding my GPS, I am actually standing on the geographical centre of Africa. And although nothing else happens, it feels good. It’s a tremendous feeling to be able to stand here, in the very heart of Africa. It is an open spot full of lots of large, porous stones. Besides the square metre which has now been designated the geographical centre of Africa, are the remains of a lifeless anthill.  There is ash on the ground, indicating that a fire destroyed everything here not so long ago, creating an opportunity for a new, fruitful beginning. Demina and Ngaté don’t know quite what to do here. They sit against a tree and wait. The air is buzzing with hundreds of bees, which sting my armpit twice. But the adrenaline is still rushing through my veins and I hardly notice the stings. It’s also swarming with irritating flies. They’re everywhere and are trying to crawl into my ears or sit on my eyes and drink the moisture out of them. The heat will soon turn the venomous green shrubs among the trees the same colour as the long, dry grass. Ngaté and Demina cut them down with their machetes so we can use them to make a bed. It’s getting dark and I quickly make a fire on which to cook the macaroni we brought with us. Now it is dark now and the bees and flies have settled down, it has gone extremely quiet. The trees, whose dark silhouettes would usually scare me on any other night, stand patiently waiting. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that the branches stretch up rather than out. I had expected it to feel a bit like Blair Witch, in a forest so far from home, but I fall into a peaceful sleep.

When I wake up I immediately remember my dream. Dozens of local people came here to shake my hand and welcome me, offering me all kinds of things. One of them told me: ‘The deceased will pass by in time.’

Walking back through the forest, as we reach the sandy path Ngaté cuts a notch in the tree to mark the spot where we came out of the forest. He wants to be able to find the way back. While they seemed to find this journey a little strange to start with, Demina and Ngaté are now more than proud to tell anyone we meet that they have just been to the geographical centre of Africa. By the time we get back to Dekoa, the whole village knows the story of the geographical centre. It wouldn’t surprise me if they all go there together one day. I marked the geographical centre by digging the square metre out, a few centimetres deep. In time, even within a matter of weeks, that spot will look no different to the rest of the area. Or will anyone preserve it? Will anyone keep this special square metre free of leaves, twigs and branches as a tribute to the heart of Africa? I wonder what I’ll find when I come back in a few years time. That much is certain; I will be back.

TO THE GEOGRAPHICAL CENTRE OF NORTH AMERICA

The sign ‘highway 513 ends’ is on the edge of the village of Dauphin River, an Indian reservation with 160 inhabitants. This is the nearest village to the geographical centre of North America. We’ve already heard it said many times this week in Dauphin River: we couldn’t have chosen a worse time to come. The ice on the lake is melting and there’s water everywhere. Difficult though it might be, it seems that it won’t be impossible to get there. Terry, a friendly Indian, will take us across the lake tomorrow. But first he’s going to take us to meet his grandmother, Marry Stagg. She is 92 and one of the first inhabitants of Dauphin River. She’s sitting in a big rocking chair and giggles like a young girl on the brink of puberty. She tells me the history of Dauphin River, joking and laughing all the time. She came here in 1929 at the age of 17. There were seven other Indian women and eight Indian men. Together they made up Dauphin River. It was a very isolated place and in no way connected to any other area. They were completely dependent on each other. Today there is a gravel road, electricity and running water, but this reservation is still a very close-knit community. Marry has thirteen children and approximately 150 (great) grandchildren, already in the fifth generation. Half of Dauphin River is consequently related to her. Almost everyone is a fisherman. They hunt for their own consumption only. When the men go hunting they go into the jungle and do not come out again until they have shot a moose. They share the meat. There are a lot of black bears in the area, but they don’t hunt them. Hellen, Terry’s sister tells me: ‘Our people don’t hunt and eat bears, because if you remove a bear’s skin a human being will be revealed.’

The next morning Hellen and her husband Tim ask if they can come with us. The geographical centre of North America is on the other side of Sturgeon Bay, on Lake Winnipeg. Terry jokes that the lake is as big as the whole of the Netherlands and sure enough, there’s not much difference. From Dauphin River it’s about 22 km across the bay, as the crow flies, and then a few more over land to get to the geographical centre. Terry takes Tim and Gijs along in his Bombardier, a bright yellow antique caterpillar-tracked vehicle, usually used for fishing on the ice. Hellen and I each set off on a snow scooter. Tim briefly explains how the snow scooter works: ‘This is the throttle, this is the brake, that’s all you need to know. Go on.’ The sun is shining in the lake. Ahead of me lies a vast empty stretch with millions and millions of diamonds and, on the horizon, a strip of green. That is where I am headed. I squeeze the throttle and am thrust forwards. I look over my shoulder, still a little uncertain, wondering if I should be looking out for cracks or weak spots in the ice. But when I see Hellen is following me, there’s no holding back. I fly across the ice at 75 km/hr. It’s fantastic, out of this world. This is one of those moments of utter exuberance. At the top of my voice I shout: ‘I’m the king of the ice.’ The heaps of snow on the ice sometimes make me take off altogether, displaying some newly acquired jumping skills. That makes for even more screams of joy. The Bombardier can only get up to about thirty kilometres an hour. Every now and then Hellen and I stop to wait for the others. The Bombardier thunders towards us, making a dreadful racket and sending pieces of ice flying everywhere. It leaves a deep, wet trail.

After some forty kilometres on the ice, we approach the embankment. The ice is much thinner here. This is apparently as far as the Bombardier will go. Tim is like a big kid when he jumps onto the snow scooter and takes off to explore. His long hair tied back in a pony tail, wearing big sunglasses and an even bigger grin, he pushes the snow scooter to the limit. The source of Hiding Creek is two kilometres inland, towards the geographical centre. Tim scoots me through the water and literally up the creek. The snow scooters are not really intended to cross water and it’s pretty rough going. Water splashes in all directions and while we’re hanging diagonally above the water I lose my balance. With my bottom only just above the ice-cold water, I clamp on as tightly as I can to Tim, who looks back at me anxiously. We can’t stop, we’d sink. I manage to reach the embankment, thank heavens.

This is where the going gets really tough. Another two thousand four hundred metres through the snow. Terry comes with us, worried we might get lost, Tim and Hellen wait behind. The snow is so thick that I sink in up to my waist. I try to wade my way through it, with my arms seemingly practising the front crawl. Beneath the snow is a layer of water, which soon fills my boots. Thankfully, the struggle through the snow warms me up so that my feet stand no chance of freezing. After about five hundred metres the snow is not so deep anymore and walking becomes a little easier. We arrive at a frozen swamp, full of tiny, thin trees. I’ve stopped sinking into the snow but do slip, and almost fall over, several times. Two point four kilometres might not seem far but in these conditions it feels like crawling a marathon. The reward is all the greater for the energy it has cost us to get there. We have reached our target. The geographical centre of North America is a little hill covered with wild Musteg tea, which grows on the moss, and red goblet flowers. Beside the hill is a tree. On the branch hanging above the geographical centre I see a large black knot of bear hair. I am absolutely in my element. I had hoped that I would see some of the black bears or moose that live so abundantly in this region. However, considering that bears are a rather sleepy species and moose fairly shy, I am more than satisfied with this knot of hair. I proudly show my find to Terry, who laughingly tells me that it is not bear hair at all, it’s come from the tree itself.

As I did at the geographical centre of Africa, I want to mark the spot in a natural way that would befit the environment. As we leave Hiding Creek Tim had shouted that whatever I did, I shouldn’t mark the spot with snow. I ask Terry what he would do. Four long, dead tree trunks tied together, with one at each corner of the square metre, would form a wigwam. How appropriate. Terry immediately starts looking for long, dead, bare tree trunks for me. I pull the cord out of my hood and use it to tie them together. Perfect, we can go back now. It is not until now that I feel how cold my feet really are, or to be more precise: I can’t feel them at all anymore. Once I’m sitting in the Bombardier, all nice and warm, they start to tingle. Before we go into Terry’s house I take off my wet boots and socks. It takes me ten minutes to get all the twigs out of my hair. And then a heavenly hot shower. When I come out, my socks are frozen and there’s a thick layer of ice in my boots. Tim and Hellen invite us to have dinner with them and also offer us a bed for the night. The first things I see when I wake up the next morning are the deer and moose antlers hanging on the wall above me. Tim is already at the kitchen table. He’s busy phoning all his friends to tell them that he now knows what ‘Hiding Creek’ had been hiding all this time. It’s wonderful to see how the geographical centre is coming to life here as well.

TO THE GEOGRAPHICAL CENTRE OF SOUTH AMERICA

The sleep still in my eyes, I gaze at the morning sky above the River Guapore. The water is as smooth as a mirror. After a while a few ripples appear on the surface. The noise of a motorboat, carrying park ranger Heitor, drowns every other sound in the Amazon. All we have to do now is wait for Abelardo, the other park ranger, who will also be accompanying us to the geographical centre of South America. Abelardo is still asleep but, an hour later and with his eyes half closed, he comes out with a tent under one arm.

From here, as the crow files, we are 77 kilometres away for the geographical centre. However, the meandering river means that we will have to travel at least twice as far as that. At a speed of 25 km/hr we sail the smooth water with Brazil on our left and Noel Kempff Mercado Park on our right. The park has been protected since 1979. It was then called ‘Parque National Huanchaca’. In 1988 the park was renamed after the biologist Noel Kempff Mercado, who had been murdered in the park by drug dealers. There is said to have been an underground cocaine laboratory somewhere near the park. It is a rich environment in which 630 bird species, 130 mammal species, 75 reptiles, 53 kinds of frog, 260 fish species and more than 4,000 plant species have been identified. The ‘Lonely Planet’ describes this as ‘possibly the finest park in the world’. The park covers an area of 1.6 million hectares. Situated in the east of Bolivia, near the Brazilian border, it is part of the southern Amazon.

The wind is bitterly cold. I pull my collar up and sleeves down in an attempt to stay warm. Abelardo has even climbed into his sleeping bag on the bottom of the boat and gone back to sleep. The reflections in the water of the riverbanks are out of this world. Heitor is good at spotting hidden animals. Time and again he points out alligators and tortoises sunbathing on the riverbanks. We sail past a whole family of river otters who are looking around with great interest. There are capuchin monkeys swinging from tree to tree and, just in front of us, a few pink river dolphins come spluttering to the surface. We also see some capybaras at the water’s edge. They are just like guinea pigs, but then pig-sized.
After about six hours we reach the point of the river that i s closest to the geographical centre of South America. The GPS tells me that we have to cover another 4.7 kilometres of jungle. My map shows a little village called Catamarca a few hundred metres down river from here. Heitor and Abelardo say there’s nothing left of it but I still want to go there. We moor the boat. I rush up onto the bank, eager to see what could possibly be here, so far from anywhere. Abelardo comes after me and says “This is Catamarca.” I see nothing but a few trees and other jungle plants. When I walk a few metres further I notice what is left of a hut on the ground. “This is where the last family lived before they left, twenty years ago,” Abelardo tells me. There used to be ten families living in Catamarca. All that is left are artichokes and the odd mango, avocado and orange tree. It has been absorbed into the wilderness. We sail back to the point where we enter the jungle.

Within metres it is clear to me that this is not going to be easy. We have three machetes with us and it takes a lot of hard work to cut a way through the thick vegetation. Two hours of cutting later and we’ve barely covered one kilometre. The high trees and thick vegetation sometimes make it very difficult for the GPS to pick up the satellite signal. We’ve only covered 1.2 kilometres and already it’s four thirty. You can only just see the sun through the cracks in the jungle. It will soon be dark. We decide to camp here. Gijs tries to cut down as many stumps and stalks as possible with his machete to create some kind of floor. In the meantime I inspect the area for vermin and make a fire to cook today’s dinner: tortellini with a dreadfully sweet wine as dessert. The label on the bottle has a picture of Tarzan and Jane in the jungle. It’s impossible to stay outside for long. Mosquitoes and other insects do their best to have us for dinner. I soon fall asleep. I am occasionally woken by the rattling of pans and cutlery. The animals have found us.

It’s bright and early. Abelardo and Heitor were up at the crack of dawn and are raring to go, eager to brave the lianas again. Yesterday there was no sign of ants whatsoever. Now the ground and the two tents are covered with them. They’re crawling up from my shoes and viciously biting my ankles. I once read that ant colonies here can polish off a whole tent within an hour. I have also discovered giant ants more than four centimetres long. Imagine having a few hundred of those in your tent and shoes! After our biscuit breakfast and with renewed courage we attempted for a second time to cut the jungle in half. Abelardo is like a machine. He’s only a little chap but I bet he wields a machete better than Arnold Schwarzenegger. As always, I might have guessed, the native guides have no water with them. We hadn’t expected this to be such a tough job. Shared among the four of us, our water doesn’t last long. Heitor reassures us that we run little risk of dehydrating. He shows us a trick. To prove his point, he cuts through a liana at the bottom, then cuts the top off and quickly brings the bottom to his mouth. Sure enough, a stream of liquid flows from the liana into his mouth. He cuts off another one for me. To my surprise the liquid is cool and refreshing. Despite the fact that the plants here are all so withered and dry. The deeper we advance into the jungle, the fewer animals we encounter. There’s absolutely nothing here for anyone, not even the animals. Here, four kilometres further inland, you can hardly even hear the familiar sounds of animals. With only one more kilometre to go to the geographical centre, Abelardo has had enough. He kicks a tree, throws his machete away and sinks to the ground. He is angry, tired, desperate, and his blistered hands hurt. I too am tired and also feeling guilty. And I’m covered in so many insect bites I can’t even count them anymore and they’re driving me mad. I have to admit that it suddenly all seems so pointless. Why am I so desperate to get to the geographical centre of South America? Why put us all through another two hours of hell when I know that a kilometre away it will look no different to how it looks here. Deep inside I know why. I don’t want to give up so leave Abelardo to let off steam and then plod on. The last kilometre is actually a lot easier. It is a godsend that the jungle vegetation is not as dense here, just what we needed.

GPS in hand, I count the last metres. I am happy, relieved and moved, all at once. I kiss Gijs, Abelardo and Heito on the cheek and then quickly turn away. I don’t want the men to see my tears.

TO THE GEOGRAPHICAL CENTRE OF OCEANIA

The geographical centre of Oceania lies in the middle of the Simpson Desert, miles away from anywhere. There are only a few Aborigines living there, in remote communities. It is 885 kilometres from Alice Springs. That’s 274 of asphalt, followed by 285 of gravel and 326 kilometres of sand. There are only two tracks crossing this gigantic, 170,000 km2 sandpit, four times the size of the Netherlands. The French Line runs from east to west and Colson Track runs from north to south. Lots of people warn us that the last few hundred kilometres will be too difficult and too dangerous. Colson Track runs through aboriginal country and we’ll need a licence to use that stretch. Getting that licence could take up to six weeks. Nobody can actually tell us whether it is even possible to reach the geographical centre of Oceania. First we try to arrange a camel expedition. We ask the Flying Doctors for advice and appeal for help on the radio and in the newspapers. But nobody dares cross the desert with us. Not a soul, until Hue, an eighteen-year-old Australian lad, responds to an appeal I had hung on a notice board. He is touring Australia in his Land Cruiser Falcor, named after the flying dog in The Never Ending Story. He would love to join us and is not put off by the dangers. We decide to go for it, we’ll set off and see how far we get. We understand that if we approach Colson Track from the south we won’t need a licence, provided we take the same route back again once we have reached the geographical centre. For safety’s sake we have taken a satellite telephone with us, as well as five jerry cans full of water, a few jerry cans full of diesel, two spare tyres and lots and lots of food. Once we’re underway it all seems much simpler. It seems that it hasn’t rained as much in the last fifteen years as it has in the last few weeks. The red sand is covered with white flowers and looks as if it has been snowing. And I have great people travelling with me: Hue, full of energy, dreads in his hair and sparkling eyes; Eric, journalist with The Advocate newspaper; and Gijs, of course.

Math and Vanessa Smith live with their three children and a dozen or so labourers on a cattle station at the edge of the Simpson Desert. In all they have around 810,000 hectares of land and more than 6,000 cattle. I’ve spoken to them on the phone several times during the past few days, seeking information about the region round the geographical centre of Oceania. They are extremely friendly and helpful people, but they have never been anywhere near the geographical centre either. Vanessa insists we use the satellite telephone if we encounter any problems. They have a small plane and could drop food, drink and/or spare car parts in the event of an emergency. It would be impossible for them to land in the sand.

When we stop near the Aboriginal community of Finke, a boy comes running towards us with a can of petrol round his neck. He offers us his can but we refuse. Petrol sniffing is a cheap way of getting high, but it blows your brains out. That is why petrol is prohibited in most Aboriginal communities, just like alcohol, and only diesel is available. We’re carrying a few crates of beer in the back of the Land Cruiser and if we get caught, we face a fine of 1,000 Australian dollars or six months in jail. The houses here are pretty much in ruins. There are more dogs in the streets than people and for the 250 people that do live there, there are constantly three policemen on the beat. A sad example of the fate of many Aborigines in a western society.
Just outside Finke we see a herd of wild camels ahead of us. I would have liked to have crossed the desert by camel. There is an Aboriginal saying which says a camel is better a car because it never gets a flat tyre. Camels are not native animals of Australia. Afghans brought them here in the 19th century. Nowadays, some 700,000 roam the Australian outback. They cause a huge amount of damage by eating the scarce vegetation. They have consequently been outlawed and are allowed to be caught and killed.

The cowboy in our two Aussie companions gets the better of them, and Hue ties a lasso from a piece of rope. Eric has already climbed up onto the roof of the Land Cruiser, which Hue is really pushing to the extreme. While chasing and trying to disperse the camels he takes some of the bends very precariously indeed. It’s a strange sight to watch those large animals running, their humps wobbling about all over the place. We can’t turn quickly enough. They get away every time. Hue then decides to chase an unsuspecting donkey. But the donkey outsmarts him as well and disappears over a deep ditch. A loud bang tells us one of the back tyres has blown. It’s torn to shreds. We brought two spares with us and we’re back on the road after about ten minutes. Less than half an hour later the other rear tyre goes as well. The last spare does its job but we can’t possibly head into the desert without spare tyres. We decide to drive on to Dalhousie Springs, another 80 km, and spend the night there. We set up camp in Dalhousie Springs. On the map, Dalhousie Springs is marked by a small dot, and I had therefore expected to find at least a few inhabitants. But it proves to be little more than a camp site and a thermal spring. Hue cooks us his speciality: vegetables and potatoes baked in ‘bush oven’, a cast iron lidded pot that you nestle among hot coals and cover with more hot coal. While we are eating, - dingos - wild dogs, come out of the woods searching for scraps.

Nights are cold in the desert. It’s quite an experience to feel the temperature drop some 50 degrees within the space of a few hours. A small path leads to the thermal spring. Shivering, I undress. When the water touches my bare skin it makes me jump. The water is 35 degrees. After a minute or so my body has got used to the heat and I enjoy the best bath I’ve ever had. If I keep perfectly still the water is like a mirror, reflecting the millions of stars in the sky.
As soon as I wake the next morning I pull on my bikini, despite it still being wet and frozen. I run barefoot over the frozen ground to the thermal spring. This time I feel something tickling my back and legs. It turns out to be tiny fish nibbling at my skin, sometimes even biting, but only gently. I will not be driven out and spend hours relaxing, enjoying this fabulous water. It turns out we are not alone in Dalhousie Springs after all. A few elderly gentlemen pull up in a shiny 4wd and with a private plane that can land on a gravel strip. One couple towing a caravan behind their 4wd makes radio contact for us with Mount Dare, to find out if we can buy spare tyres there. Apparently there is a car there we can take the tyres off. Hue and Eric drive 73 km back across the gravel. Gijs goes for a walk and I stay and have a cup of tea with the gentleman and his wife. They have been travelling through Australia for two years. They proudly show me their latest treasure: two jam pots full of opals that they found in a mine near Cooper Pedy. They are easily worth a few thousand Australian dollars.

Hue and Eric return cheerfully with two ‘new’ spares. After a few kilometres the gravel ends and the dunes begin; another 326 km to go, on loose sand. This is where the desert really starts. Hue likes to take the rugged track as fast as he can, leaving Eric and me bouncing about in the back, our heads hitting the roof with every bump. The only way to be get out of the car in one piece is to brace yourself, pressing both hands against the roof. It’s a tough ride for the beer bottles and potatoes as well, rattling about in the cool box. When Hue gets too tired to drive any further I am given the honour of taking the wheel for the last hundred kilometres to the geographical centre. We’re now on Colson Track, which runs parallel to the sand dunes. There are no tyre tracks in sight; it’s probably months since anyone else was here. The sand track is rough but easier to drive on than I had expected. Salamanders dart out in front of the tyres. The red sand is covered with large circles of sea-green spinifex, a plant with thick needles and the only thing that will grow here. The red sand, the clear blue sky and the green plants create a colourful contrast.

The sun soon disappears behind the sand, it is dark. 30 km/hr is the fastest we can go. That means another two hours to go. So far we’ve been able to drive almost straight to the geographical centre. The silhouette of a camel looms up in front of me. He’s wandering about the track, looking somewhat dazed. I feel sorry for him, there’s no telling when he last had a drink. The GPS tells me that we’re only four kilometres away from the geographical centre. But a couple of kilometres further along the arrow on the GPS points away from the track into the dunes, there’s no getting the car through there. We decide to set up camp here, in the middle of Colson Track, then make a campfire and get some sleep. With a vast expanse of star-studded sky above us. The Southern Cross, the constellation in the Australian flag, points south, showing me that tomorrow we will have to walk south-east to reach the geographical centre. Aborigines have their own method of navigation: they look at the dark patches in the Milky Way. If you look carefully you can see a running emu, the Australian ostrich. Its head ends at the Southern Cross.

It’s early morning and the sun is already burning down on my skin. As we walk, I ponder on how I’d like to mark the geographical centre this time. My first idea was to ask an Aborigine to go to the geographical centre with me. The only problem being that if I was to take an Aborigine with me, he would have to be a traditional landowner. There are no Aborigines living in this area anymore and finding someone from this part of the Simpson Desert would be no mean feat. I would also have to know in advance whether the spot was intended for ‘women’s or men’s business’ and you can only find that out by going there. It’s difficult to find anyone who is prepared to mingle in such matters, so I decide to mark the spot myself and, as Aborigines are the native population of these parts, I’ll do that using traditional aboriginal symbols. We climb a few of the more than 1100 dunes there are in the Simpson Desert. On the very top of the fourth one the GPS indicates that we have reached the spot we were looking for. The geographical centre of Oceania is right there in front of me, a tabula raza, an empty canvas of virgin red sand. It makes me nervous. Eric and Hue are particularly curious about what happens now. Using my right index finger as a pencil, I draw our camp, followed by our journey from there to the geographical centre and, finally, the four people standing round this ‘sacred spot’. With a distinct feeling of satisfaction, I take the satellite telephone and sit down in front of the spot I have just marked. It’s the middle of the night in the Netherlands. Nobody tries to stop me trying out the telephone, though. Maybe someone’s awake at home. I’m so excited I can’t for the life of me remember my mother’s telephone number. Writing it in the sand helps me get it right. On the other side of the world, someone answers the phone. It’s my brother and I’m delighted to hear his voice.

The sun is burning down on my skin now but before we return the men want to mark the geographical centre in their own ‘Aussie way’: a wrestling match. They clamber all over each other, sand flying everywhere. They land in a bush, branches and twigs cracking under their weight. There they are, out of breath and with their mouths full of sand, on top of the dune. I simply stand and watch but before I know what’s happening I have three bodies on top of me. Hands, legs and feet everywhere. I crawl out from underneath and dive on top of them. I can feel the sand grinding between my teeth. In addition to my drawing in the sand, a plateau of freshly dug sand and a few broken bushes mark the spot. Perfect. Fulfilled, I turn to take one last look as we walk back to the Land Cruiser.

TO THE GEOGRAPHICAL CENTRE OF ASIA

The obstacle barring our way this time is a mountain. The Tian Shan mountain range in China is unapproachable from the south in winter. This seemed to be the best option but having spoken with the family living closest to the geographical centre of Asia, it is clearly impossible to approach from this side in winter. Now, after a two-day trek round the mountain, we are going to try to conquer this rugged, mountainous landscape from the north. We pass through many other small villages before reaching the village of Xinjiagou. This village of 150 Uyghurs, an Islamic people, is in the first fold of the mountain range and only 8.6 kilometres, as the crow flies, from the geographical centre of Asia. Don’t forget that the geographical centre is also a few thousand metres higher, though. The mountains are covered with a thick layer of snow, which has turned to ice in some places. The Uyghur family invites us to stay the night with them.

The only way we can possibly reach the geographical centre is on horseback. We face two problems. The first is that the Chinese authorities do not appreciate tourists travelling beyond the cities anyway, let alone those setting out on heroic expeditions. The Uyghur shepherds, who have a few horses, are therefore worried that if anything should happen to us, charges could be brought against them. The second problem is that they feel it would be too dangerous for me, as a woman. The obvious conclusion is not an option, as far as I am concerned. I am going and that’s that. The men feel I should ride pillion behind one of them and discuss the matter with Gijs. Gijs says decidedly: ‘If she wants to ride herself then she will.’ This hierarchy is new to me. They let me have a practice.  I mount the horse as confidently as I can pretend to be, trying to suppress my nerves, my hands wet with cold sweat. I have only once before sat on a horse, a very tame one at the local riding stables. While this reassures me slightly, I know full well that this steed is unlikely to meekly follow its friends all the time. A lot depends on this one moment but luckily I am able to win everyone over with a smile.

We are a caravan: four horses, four riders, one goal.

What at first seemed to be impossible is about to happen. Now I know that you can move mountains, and that mountains sometimes move themselves. But we’re not there yet. This is hardcore horse riding. I must have faith in my new-found friend and believe he won’t throw me into an abyss. Every now and then I pat him encouragingly with the flat of my hand, to encourage myself as much as him, and to soft-soap him and show my appreciation. He hopefully appreciates me too. The horse knows what he’s doing. He senses when the ground is too slippery and picks a different route. He sometimes startles me when we suddenly jump over what later turns out to be a stream or when we suddenly sink more than a metre deep into the snow.
But then when I look around me at the magnificent surroundings, all fear disappears, seemingly crushed by four hooves. I am in love. My heart is shining. I feel a sense of anticipation, as if I’m about to meet my loved one in the mountains. But it’s neither a person nor a place that has melted my heart, it’s the victory, the knowledge that we’re on the brink of achieving another goal.

This is the most beautiful landscape to travel through. It really is breathtaking. Besides the vastness, the whiteness of the snow and the views across thousands of mountain tops, the very fact that I’m balancing on a horse enhances this overwhelming experience even more. This is the end of the world, the edge you could fall off.

From one of the mountain tops I can see the valley the arrow on my GPS is pointing to. Somewhere down there is the geographical centre of Asia. Only about two kilometres, as the crow flies. I feel like galloping that last stretch but am luckily able to curb my enthusiasm a little longer. Half an hour later I throw myself on the snow precisely on the geographical centre of Asia. Momojohn, our interpreter, dances circles round me, singing. I get up and laughingly chase him round that point until we have kicked all the snow away and the bare ground beneath becomes visible.

The geographical centre is part of an open place known as ‘the bridge’. It is a meeting place for Uyghur shepherds and Kazakhstani shepherds. In summer months this is the scene of an age-old ritual. A girl on horseback fights with a man on horseback. They each have a lance. If the girl wins then a ‘rich’ onlooker pays for a sheep for the celebration feast. If the man wins then…
With a smile on my face, but my fingers crossed behind my back, I promise Momojohn to practice my horse riding and learn to fight with a lance, and come back next summer to prove that a white woman could do just as well. Momojohn looks at me suggestively and says: “If you lose they’ll take you off to Kazakhstan…”

TO THE GEOGRAPHICAL CENTRE OF EUROPE

It is dark and I haven’t a clue where I am. Just as I go to pull a map of Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, out of my coat pocket, I see a mother swinging her child round on a plain. The impressive building I am standing beside was built in Greek style and originally dedicated to the god of thunder. This has to be the Cathedral on ‘Katedros Aikste’ (Cathedral Square). In this square is a stone with the inscription ‘stebuklas’, which means ‘wonder’. You must find this wishing stone yourself, it’s forbidden for others to point it out to you. When the mother and child have gone, I walk to the spot where she had swung her child round. I stand on the coloured stone and turn a full circle, clockwise. Now I can make a wish. The art of making a wish is to make one which can come true. My wish is that visiting the last geographical centre of this journey will be special.

And it is.

In 1987 the sculptor Gintaras Karoso purchased 55 hectares of land which he felt would encompass the geographical centre of Europe. He had read, in an atlas published in 1937, that the geographical centre of Europe was situated a few kilometres north of Vilnius. In 1989 the IGN (Institut Géographique National) calculated the geographical centre of Europe and the spot was marked. As the crow flies, it is approximately 12 kilometres from where Gintaras Karosos has since realised a sculpture park with more than 90 sculptures created by artists from 29 different countries. There are works by such people as Dennis Oppenheim and Magdalen Abakanowicz. Gintaras also provided a few himself including his Monument for the Centre of Europe and LNK infotree, recognised by the Guinness Book of World Records as the largest work of art in the world, which incorporates a total of 3,000 television sets.
I am extremely honoured that Gintaras Karosas wants to accompany us to the newly calculated geographical centre of Europe.

Four days ago the largest newspaper in Lithuania, Rytas, had published an article about the ‘new’ geographical centre calculated by the IGN. What a coincidence that there should be media attention for the different calculations determining the geographical centre of Europe at the very same time that we’ve come looking for it. I had received the coordinates from the IGN in March and now they’ve also been published in Lithuania. Various geographers have determined different points as being the geographical centre of Europe. The announcement of a newly calculated geographical centre has come as a big disappointment to some people. In May 2004 a monument was erected at the previously calculated geographical centre and roads have been built leading to it. Cost: half a million euros.

Gintara Karosas, on the other hand, is pleasantly surprised. Maybe the newly calculated geographical centre is in his sculpture park this time. Gintaras Karosas told me that he’d always known he’d chosen the right place. In 1993 he said in an interview that he was absolutely sure he was living in the heart of Europe.

In his Rover we drive along narrow winding roads covered with a thick layer of snow. After a slight detour the GPS leads us back to the motorway. We’ll have to walk the last 400 metres, away from the motorway and into the forest. Gintaras is a quiet, timid man, but the closer we get to the geographical centre, the more enthusiastic he gets. After about a hundred metres we pass a pile of discarded old car tyres some farmer has carelessly dumped here. We stop and look at them for a moment. The white of the snow is in stark contrast to the black tyre tread. It’s lovely. It looks like a modern work of art.

We come to an open space. The sky above us and the snow below are the same colour. The only thing telling me there is a horizon and that I can’t walk on the sky, are the trees around us. Only 50 more metres to go. Gintaras asks which direction and within seconds he is in the middle of the white space. This is a magic spot, we agree. Gintaras doesn’t seem to mind at all that this spot is not his territory but is in fact owned by a local farmer. He turns around, looks at me and says: ‘The trees here are short, that’s good. I don’t like tall trees.’

The area of this open space looks square. I explain to Gintaras that we can store the ‘track’, the route we took to get here, in the GPS. I want to know the exact shape of the area around the geographical centre. Gintaras is game for that, without a hint of hesitation. Together we decide that this is the best way to mark the spot. Starting in one corner we walk through the crisp snow, staying as close to the tree edge as we can. Gintaras starts to run and, also feeling the urge for physical activity, I follow his example. Now and then Gintaras or I lose our footing on the slippery ground under the snow, staggering and stumbling as a result, but that doesn’t matter. I feel free. I am sure Gintaras does too.

Running around in the snow I feel the sheer amazement this place inspires in me. I am an explorer, on an expedition to examine and interpret the environment. All kinds of things spring to mind: I’d love to run around on snow crystals ten thousand times their real size and visible to the naked eye; I feel like swimming in a white ball pool and wonder if I really am trapped under that milk glass dome of sky above me. That’s funny: if I run, my feet don’t feel wet anymore. I wonder what Gintaras is thinking right now?

We come to a panting halt at each corner and look at the GPS. Every corner points precisely to one of the four points of the compass. Coincidence? As I breathlessly arrive at the spot we started from, I look across at Gintaras. I see the twinkling in his eye and know that he’s just as pleased as I am with this new location for the geographical centre of Europe.