Nick Charles and I were parked at Prince Albert National Park. You remember Nick Charles? Son of Airstream President Andy Charles, and my partner in misadventure?
We were in the Belgian Congo, near the entrance to the park. Late in the afternoon, Wagon Boss Lou Mousley pulled in – then, Wally and Stella.
When their Airstreams, and the dust that followed, settled Wally asked me and Nick to come over for a meeting. With Wally and Lou, we discussed the next stop.
Through our association with Jean-Pierre Hallet, a school had been notified about the Caravan and our impending arrival. All was well.
Wally and Lou were both concerned about the winding, steep encarpment that lay ahead, on both sides of the mountain. The road conditions and lack of adequate parking at the school were worrying them. Wally gave us our contract, which we both signed, and told us to eat dinner before we left.
When we left, dusk had already settled in. This meant we’d be driving in the perils of nighttime in Africa.
The first few miles were but a gradual climb. But suddenly the road rose up in front of us, needlessly steep with tight curves, as if a wave were exploding in front of us. Fortunately, the road was at least graded, relatively smooth for this area of the Congo.
Headlights illuminated our way, giving visibility to each curve, at least allowing us to see when each curve sprung up on us, one after another after another.
Time went by slowly. Yes – we left our Chevy truck’s four-wheel drive engaged the whole time. Then came the turn. Staring us in the eyes: a herd of elephants, crossing the road. These incredible creatures may look friendly in photographs, but with the monstrous adults were babies. Can you imagine what a mother elephant might do to protect her young? She’ll trample, charge, and kill anything that stands to threaten her young.
We slammed on the brakes. SCREECH! No good – as we engaged our reverse gear, we backed down far enough to avoid the herd. So we ran directly into the gutter, there to help the area’s heavy monsoon rains to run off the road. It was midnight – pitch black, with no city buildings to glow i the distance – and we had no way to use our four-wheel drive or power wench.
We waited. We waited some more. We waited for what felt like an eternity, hoping for a passing night traveler whose goodwill and assistance could help wrench us from our predicament.
Minutes past 1:30 in the morning, still wide awake from the adrenaline (and terror) of the experience, a truck motored in our direction. It was at least a two-and-a-half ton flatbed Mercedes, with seven or eight natives riding behind the stakes.
We flagged down the driver. Within thirty minutes, we were back on the road.
Two more hours went by, and we arrived at our destination. As we pulled up to the school, we parked, went to sleep, and awoke at sunrise. We opened the door.
There were visitors.
At least a hundred men circled our scout truck. Holding spears. Sharp ones, too. They were armed also with bows and arrows, dressed in animal skins. Their curiosity was understandable, and we sensed no danger.
In Johannesburg, I purchased a small “D” battery portable record player. Two 33 1/3 vinyls come to mind: Rickey Nelson and Keely Smith with Sam Butera and the Witnesses.
Several times we found music was the world’s universal language, somehow able to bring any people together. We couldn’t communicate in their native tongue, but the natives were curious about this little box they’d never seen before. When they heard Louis Prima singing, and the music’s great rhythm, they smiled and chatted with one another.
It was time now to contact the school and make arrangements for the Caravan, and to move out to the next stop.
Before we left, Nick and I gave the curious students an English lesson: when the Caravan arrived at the school, they were greeted with viva, viva Wally Byam in unison, which was repeated several times.
In a short period, we’d survived elephants, almost gone plummeting down a mountain, met armed native men, and trained the school’s students to meet the Caravanners. One wild night.
Dale “Pee Wee” Schwamborn has silver in his blood. Each week, Pee Wee shares one of his many stories, including his experiences on the iconic Airstream Caravans, his time spent working in the Airstream factory, and the many Airstreamers he’s befriended, far and wide.
