Welcome to team Chocks Away

Chocks Away are two spiffing chaps, David Aspinall & Ben Stevenson.

They plan to drive some 7000 miles for two charities, SOS Africa Schools & Send a Cow. All in an elegant 750cc automobile. A 1934 Austin Seven Special to be precise! 

Please have a read on to see what they have been up to recently and check out the pages of the left to find out more about their adventure. 

Toot Toot!

SMS Update

Sallys checked and wrapped up on a warm bed of straw. Ben & David are relaxing in the 1st class lounge, with a cool G&T waiting for their private BA jet. Great Briton is calling!

Dogon and on

From Chocks Away Journal-20thto 23rd of January, 2010

Apologies for lack of pictutures, will be uploaded in Blighty.

It was touch and go but it seems we have a suitable vechicle in which to drive both sally and us to Lagos. It soon became apparent that the majority of the population of Mali are scared of going to Nigeria, and so convincing a driver to take us proved rather taxing. We clearly don't do taxing, so hired the local mafia boss to scare someone into it, we think the bundles of used bank notes might also have helped. We celebrated our acheivement by roasting a goat, and invited some locals to join us. It was a merry evening for all but the goat.  

Our german made van will hopefully appear on Sunday where we shall carefully place sally in her resting place before darting off to Bukino Faso, Benin and finally our new finish line, Lagos International Airport on the 28th of January. However we have learnt that nothing is certain and are there is the small matter of a currently rioting Nigeria to contend with.

While our van is being prepared we decided to roll up our socks, don our favourite peaked hats and explore the delights of Dogon Country. To celebrate our departure the chef got a bit over excited and roasted 50 pigeons for us. We were clearly held in high regard and so invited the great and the good from the local town to join us once more. We regailed them with tales of our adventure, and it wasn't long till they had all left, some in wheelspinning motor cycles, and we were alone with full stomaches, an avery of bones and the knowledge that the next morning would bring us to Dogon.

The cockeral woke us up at an early hour, as it insisted on doing every morning, his friend the donkey joined in to make a chorus of joy and certainly not mild irritation. As we gracefully rose from our slumber the mystery of Dogon filled the air. What would we discover about a quite remarkable civilisation? Would we return changed men, swap our Panamas for their rounded hats and philosophise about the stars while smoking a pipe in the Togo-na with other wise elders. Well clearly not, the tea was bound to be awful, there was obviously not going to be any gentlemans club of any standing in which to retire and where would we get our tweed? We were keen to learn though and so hired a guide by the name of A.G. who met us over breakfast. He was a wild eyed fellow, and spoke as good a english as we had encountered. He was also going to prove helpful for future encounters.     

We were chauffeured on a rocky road to a town called Dourou, and on the way passed some onion fields introduced unsurprisingly by the French in the 19th century. Dourou is set on top of the plateau, overlooking the plain that leads to bukino faso. A.G. told us about all the structures in the village and how they were built in a certain order in relation to the human body- for example the aforementioned Togu-na, the meeting place for elders and a council of sorts is at the head (the brain) of the village, while the sacrifical alters are at the feet. 

We learnt a smattering of Dogon, and went on our way greeting the elders, offering them Kola nuts, a caffine laced stimulant, and prayed they wouldn't enduce a suprise heart attack. The village was full of interest and to understand the intracasies of it and the culture would have taken an age, therefore a return visit might be necessary.

The Dogon, like the western world, are scared of menstrating women. In a inspirational move that should be introduced everywhere the females are put in a hut called the Maison des regles for the duration of their tempestuous few days. The old women help them get through it, offering natural remedies for ailments. There is generally a split between men and women in dogon, with seemingly the women doing the majority of the hard labour. A chauvanists dream.
 
From our starting point in Dourou we awaited for our porters to bring our Fortnums hamper and our chez longues for our 3 day trek through Dogon. We strapped it all to an old donkey which we had purchased for a hanful on kola nuts, and set off on our merry way across the plateau to our place of rest. The fantasy donkey soon dissapeared in a mirage of sweat, and the three of us were left with all our belongings straped to our backs in a rather indignified fashion. 

The walk was challenging for all but the most gallient of men, so posed little problem for us. Plenty of clambering over rocks and stones later and we arrived at our first nights lodgings- a matress ontop of a dogon House, with nothing but the stars above us. It was in this village we met the hunter, and he proudly showed us his monkey skulls that covered his house. With a starry blanket and a cask of ale in our stomaches we rested in anticipation for the next days gigantic expedition.

The following day, a Friday as we recall, was to be a grueling walk of up ascending and descending small mountains. We had our union jacks which we planted at the summits, and our fortified spirit which got us through. It was required on one particular descent as we tightroped a plank of rotton wood over a hazardous drop. The end of the long trek found us in Tele, a largish dogon village on the plain. The backdrop for Tele consisted of hundreds of buildings built into the cliff, quite an astonishing sight. They were no longer inhabited as the people had moved to the easier land of the plain, but once were and are now protected by UNESCO, along with other Dogon places of beauty. We were guided round it by A.G. and marveled at the acheivement of building such structures in difficult surroundings.

Having spent another night under the heavens we manfully strode back to our Chauffeur and were escorted back to Sally, where she awaited her transport to Lagos. However all was not as it seemed- TBC

SMS Update

Arrived at Lagos airport to a warm British Airways welcome! Surrounded by locals taking photos, feel like celebrities!

SMS Update

Even our Malian Trojan horse wasn't stealthy enough for a night attack but now we ride again, to Benin we cry!

SMS Update

Boan? How about bone. Too much Tonic not enough Gin.

SMS Update

Operation SOS fully underway, left Mali and now on the boan crunching non stop drive to Benin, time for a G&T

SOS- Save Our Sally

The intrepid two have been fighting back their demons for the greater good. Sally is in no fit state to continue and since they are all stranded in probably the remotest part of the whole 7000 mile adventyure, she must be saved. They leave no one behind, even one as problematic as an epileptic colostomy bag. 

They are not sure how she will see the sights of Lagos yet, perhaps on the back of a cow lorry, or balanced upon 5 donkeys, but she will be returned to Englands fair shores- do not fret about that.

This unfortunate demise has led the pair to giving up their long term plan of reaching Cameroon, and as aforementioned will instead head for Lagos, Nigeria, the most dangerous city in the universe (apparently). From here the good folk at British Airways will fly here back to Christendom. Thanks be.

There are plans afoot- More exciting installments of this rescue mission are no doubt imminent

Mechanical issues

A dark spectre of filth and misfortune has been hounding the duo from the start of their ill fated venture. For a long time their virtuous spirit has beaten off the beast without affecting their unbounding ability to carry on. The time is nigh, like a Shakespearean tradegy, to call time on their mission to Cameroon. The pairs vision is no longer tinted with rose, but instead, a blackness that blocks even the bluest of african skies. 

Extract from Chocks Aways journal, 13-14th January 2010

The evening of the twelth, (oh to be back in that joyous ignorance) was spent playing crude American card games with scandinavian gentleman, we knew not the rules but soon found ourselves victorious, a royal flush indeed- just desserts. We spent our 3 viking grotes on a bottle of gin and retired to our balcony residence with the knowledge that our trusty steed was outside our door, fixed by The mavarick mechanic only hours before. The night was once more restful, filled with dreams of bountiful virgins whispering prosporous tales of our future.

On the morning of the thirteenth, we were repeatedly awoken by a neighbours permently on stereogram, which was spewing some European language we cared to ignore. A hammer later and we jumped into action and poured ourselves a poor excuse for tea, and ate our thousanth baguette.  Sally was once more drawing her usual crowd and it was a good couple of hours before we pulled away from the screaming adorners. With confetti in our hair we set out for the promised land of bukino faso, the next stepping stone to cameroon. 

A fortunate, but ultimately calamitous event occured when we stalled going up a treacherous twenty centermetre incline. The stoppage drew our attention to the fact that we were leaving a trail of black oil as dark and ominous as the river Styx. We are considerate folk and find no pleasure in dirtying Africas pastures with the unnecessary waste of our good oil, and so pulled over, just before the keepers gates at our mopti prison. We could go no further. 

Our friend Bob the mechanic found us once more. To his absolute credit he promised to rectify the situation for gratis and invited us to stay in his family home. A litre of oil trail later and we arrived at his mansion. To our surprise he had two wives and twelve children, who were all well mannered in a non traditional way.  We were treated to a feast and given pride of place on the only table. Bob was clearly a proud man. and took great pleasure in looking after his family, and treated us with the hospitality that is rarely found. The amount of food was quite overpowering, but all delicious. 

After our luncheon we began work on the car, although David was dispatched to a dark room to keep an eye on proceedings from afar. Ben carried on and it was not long until Bob declared the situation was fixed. David's lack of excursion led him to think of home as he repeatably shreiked 'europe' into a bucket, it seemed the home cooking reacted badly with his finely tuned culinary nose. The rest of the details of that particular fellowes night shall remain a secret darker than that of dorian grey. 

A wholely unrestful nights sleep on foam matresses and a stereogram blessed with the previous nights ones ailments meant that ben awoke at an early hour in a ravaged state. His mission was clear, to fix the automobile.

By lunch David was awake and wobbled into the passenger seat. We thanked bob and his two wives for their generous hospitality, then paid for it, and then drove off as fast as we could.

Bob was clearly looking out for his family, which we understood, even admired, but by now we were ready to support another charity oncemore.  Oil was still pouring out. Each dribble was a death toll on our adventure. Sally was no better than before and we are now left alone- stranded as the stench of failure over takes evey pour of our being. We hope tomorrow brings a beacon of hope, as for now we are without.  

The beginning of the end

Two names in the mud. Defeated, dirty and desperate. How can one recover from such adversity. Many could not, but we are Great Britons and we shall never retire.

Our Mechanic, Bob, has done his work and the car is now up and running. It sounds like a barrel of marbles on top of a treadmill, but it moves in a forward direction, which we count as progress. It has been a testing few days, but finally we can be on the road tomorrow. Since Sally has been raped and pillaged, we are going to council her through the next few miles, taking it slow and making sure she is comfortable. Will we make Cameroon? Hard to say, but only because we don't know Malain for 'But of course'.

Saluté dear friends, onwards and eastwards once more. Next stop Bukino Faso.

Sally is dead, Long live Sally?

Dear readers, it is our sad news to inform you that our little Austin Sally has died an awful and painful death. There are no words to console us in our time of need.

The tale of woe began on the morning of the 8th of January. We awoke with a sense of glee after a restful nights sleep at the Hotel Ypasdesproblem (translated - Hotel, It is not a problem). Today we planned to visit some of the Villages in Dogon Country, a traditional and remarkable group of ancient Malain villages to the east Mopti. It was going to be a good day, as after we had spent the morning in Dogon, we were to cross the border into Bukino Faso.

We had spoke to a guide in Bamako over the phone called Hamadou, who sounded slightly suspect, but since we weren't going to see him again; it was not a problem. Problem. He was waiting for us outside the Hotel, offering us a morning tour around the villages. The grinning devil negotiated a price that was most certainly better for him than us, but as we were only going for the morning a few extra beans out of our pockets was no great loss.He sped off on his two wheeled machine; and we set off in persuit. Sally was running a little slow, so we stopped to replace one of the spark leads; and all was good once more.

After several miles of good driving there came the sound of dread. A clunking, booming noise of dispair rattled poor Sally. The engine was turned off and we limped to the side of the road. We gave her a drink of whiskey in the hope that it would restore her, but she was even off that. Something had gone seriously wrong. Hamidou of course had a friend who could help us, and for a kings ransom we got a tow back to the town; where he had another friend who was a mechanic. 'This is truly fortunate', were not thoughts that passed through our heads.

A fat man called Bob was the owner of the garage, and he lothargically took apart the engine. After some diagnosis from Ben; it was pretty obvious the Crank had snapped. We retreated to the nearest bar and had a sharp drink. When we returned the news was no better, the Crank case had also split, in three places. Back to the bar for a bottle of a sharp drink. We returned for the third time but even with blurred vision we could still see the cracks. Poor Sally, she was now in bits in the middle of a dusty town.

The fat man came to the hotel without problems to discuss price. As he spoke his chins glistened in the sunlight, he surely was related to some ancient king. As he scrawled his exorbitant price on the back of the last tourists shirt he stole, we both laughed heartely, was he the black Johhny Vegas? We explained that we had a spare crank, and that, aside from welding the case there was little he needed to do. The price was finally reduced, but it was still ridiculous, but like the scene from Shawshank, we had little choice. Our Champagne budget was going to have to be reduced considerably..

That evening we mulled in despair, but in the hope that Sally would be restored to her former glory, ultimately a small price to pay we reasoned. We met a plesant German fellow, and dicussed how our nations could come together to invade France, the thought cheered us up, as did the Champagne- perhaps we could cut something else?

Another restful night in the hotel without problems and news that the fat man had not got the case fixed yet. By 12 it was done; and he returned to the hotel with some good news. He was going to charge us more money! It seemed that one of the pistons had cracked; but for a reasonable price he had found a replacement. Bargain we thought. Of course it needed to be drilled to fit our engine; and that was going to be a lot of work... quite the surprise. Reasurringly expensive? We shall see...

 Please remember dear reader, that we are British, and we shall never surrender. Chocks Away and Sally shall rise again!