Motorhome travel: Campervan adventures in Kenya

See also: Campervan: Travel and Destination Guide

Words and photos by Tracy Brooks

Living in Africa gives us lots of travel and camping opportunities but drama and breakdowns along the way can be expected.

Although, when my husband, Alan, and I drove Henry, our Peugeot Boxer converted campervan to Kenya from South Africa last year, we found the mechanically seamless journey rather tame.

Henry gamely took on the challenge of some occasionally dreadful roads without complaint and soothed our fears that he wasn’t the vehicle for Africa!

Kenya's magnificent Aberdare Range

After a month in Nairobi (Kenya’s capital), we set off for a weekend in the Aberdares, which is a magnificent mountain range north of Nairobi. We had Kipipiri Campsite to ourselves. The crystal-clear air, vividly hued landscape and silence broken only by insects, birds and the occasional mooing cow was magical.

Alan is pretty slapdash about packing and, because we left Nairobi on a very hot day, he didn’t think to pack clothing suitable for chilly mountain nights. The first inkling he had that this may have been a serious oversight came when the campsite askari (night guard) began layering clothes  – trousers and a sweater over his t-shirt and shorts, followed by a jacket, overlaid with a long woollen coat, before pulling on thick socks and a sturdy pair of boots! “Did you pack warm clothes?” Alan asked, with concern on his face. I had, but couldn’t answer for the giggles erupting as the askari continued dressing, adding thick gloves, a scarf and a balaclava to his outfit. The afternoon was still warm enough for shorts and sandals but things were obviously expected to change. And they did!

We built an enormous fire and I dressed warmly but without trousers and shod only in sandals, Alan was suffering. We turned in early, looking forward to snuggling up under the down duvet, and thankful we were in a campervan. However, despite the benefits of being inside a vehicle and off the ground, Alan didn’t sleep a wink for the cold, convinced his toes were frostbitten.

The following morning glowed with sunlight and heat; it was a stunner of a day but, over breakfast, my action man husband admitted that he couldn’t face another night under those circumstances and pleaded to go home. “On one condition,” I agreed. “We go looking for Happy Valley socialite Alice de Janzé’s house. It’s pretty close and will only take an hour.” Deal concluded, we packed up to go house-hunting.

A campervan calamity in the Wanjohi Valley

The Aberdare landscape is jaw-droppingly beautiful and it’s easy to understand why so many colonial settlers chose this area for their new lives. The air is pristine and the sky is eye-achingly blue.

We wound our way along country lanes embraced by hedgerows of blackberry brambles and shrubs. Over the hedges, the gentle outlines of the Aberdare Range slumbered above the Wanjohi Valley. Patchworked with little green fields, tin-roofed farmhouses, voluptuously woolly sheep and contentedly grazing cows, the valley’s idyllic, tranquil setting held us spellbound. Every few minutes I begged for yet another photo stop to capture one more gorgeous vista or an unusual blossom. The campervan didn’t falter once, despite the deep ruts and channels cut into the road by water run-off from the rains.

But that was our first seven miles of gravel road from Kipipiri into the Wanjohi Valley. Then we were brought down to earth with an ear-shattering screech, rapidly followed by expletives from Alan as we slammed to a halt just below the crest of a hill.

Scrambling out of Henry, we stared at the oil pumping gelatinously down the hill, carrying our calm zen with it. “The culprit!” Alan pronounced, pointing to the oil-drenched rock at his feet, “The front shocks are a bit soft, we bottomed out after the last bump at precisely the moment we went over that rock.”

There we were, surrounded by emptiness and a magnificent view, victims of a perfect, sump-smashing storm. We were far from the nearest village, let alone any kind of vehicle help. A desperate SOS call to a friend in Nairobi (three hours away) proved fruitless – he was on safari for the next two days!

Help from numerous volunteers

Only in Africa could people, within minutes, pop up miraculously from nowhere and begin inspecting the vehicle, the rock and the black slick oozing over the gravel. Then a boda boda (a motorbike taxi) roared alongside, and the driver, sensing richer pickings, turfed his two passengers and their 50kg bag of maize off his bike to take Alan in search of a tow vehicle.

Off they zoomed while Henry and I were the focal point of a growing crowd of people enthralled by this unexpected event. Mzungus (white people). A vehicle with a bed inside it! They called a friend or five and the crowd had soon begun to amass cup final proportions.

"We've found a tow, for what it's worth," Alan announced on his return. "Pastor Jimmy has a short-wheelbased Landcruiser, cute as a button, but I think it’s too small to pull Henry." Pastor Jimmy arrived and many willing hands attached the vehicles. But, oh dear…

Henry: 1 – Cruiser: nil. The three-tonne campervan was too heavy to budge. After much discussion, the crowd put their shoulders behind both cars and shoved the vehicles up the hill. I led the multitude on foot to a steep downhill, where Henry was let loose to freewheel to the next incline. 

And on we went, until a daunting slope brought everything to a halt. "Looks like we’re camping here for the night," Alan declared. "Let’s call it a day and walk to the village for a beer." However, before we could put the new plan into action, some of our helpers returned with an ancient Mitsubishi truck, insisting this would get us up the hill. Weary of the endless attention and stares, I decided to walk ahead, followed by a gaggle of giggling children. Waiting with growing impatience for the vehicles to summit, I turned to investigate a new noise – a large group of men, laughing and dancing their way along the road from the village, had been called to assist.

Repairs by torchlight

I hurried after them to find the vehicles stalled and Alan surrounded by an excited mob negotiating the best price for their labour. Reaching agreement, a tow rope was attached to the front of the Mitsubishi and taken up by one group while the rest swarmed along the sides and rear of both vehicles. Heaving and chanting and with the additional horse (man?) power, the astonishing spectacle moved out of sight. By the time I caught up with them, Henry was swamped by curious villagers loudly discussing this thrilling affair, and my appearance brought even more people out to stare!

A gentle tug on my elbow introduced Pastor David, enquiring solicitously as to whether I was frightened by the noisy, chaotic crowds. I was delighted to assure him not at all, I quite understood the curiosity value of the situation, which would be village talk for months to come.

Pastor David said he'd called for a mechanic he knew – a reliable local, and soon the fundi arrived and disappeared under Henry. Overwhelmed by the attention and gawps, Alan and I retired to a little pub, hoping to escape the limelight. Although the age limit deterred the kids, the over 18s poured in to stare and take photos. Defeated, we left to walk around the village, trailing a huge group of giggling and jostling kids. Over walls and under gates, they swarmed to investigate.

The crumpled sump emerged looking rather sad, but Pastor David had it all in hand. He'd summoned a colleague with a car to take us, the mechanic and himself to the closest small town, Miharati, about 18 miles away. The small Toyota stoically bore all five of us and, eventually, we arrived at the welder who took charge of the sump while Alan and I were escorted to the tiny motor spares shop, still open at 7pm on a Sunday evening. After purchasing diesel oil and silicone, we found a supermarket and bought the worst potato crisps we've eaten, and a packet of biscuits, which became both our Sunday supper and Monday breakfast. Needs must when stranded!

Then we received a message from Pastor Jimmy, enquiring as to our progress and offering blankets and a meal. Bowled over by his kindness we declined, not wanting to be more of a nuisance than we already were. Meanwhile, the welder, operating by the light of a mobile phone torch, did a wonderful job for the measly sum of £15. The repair was not only perfect but mending the sump saved a huge outlay on a new one.

Panel-beaten sump cover in hand, the mechanic asked us to buy him a torch so that he could fit it when we got back to Henry! As it was already quite late and the poor man had been working for hours, we didn't feel it was a fair option, kind as it was, so we said we'd sleep in Henry and finish in the morning.

About an hour later, Alan and I finally achieved a level of privacy inside Henry and celebrated our remarkable rescue by opening a bottle of red wine and chomping crisps and biscuits in the romantic orange light given off by the lamp shining through a kikoy (wrap).

Farewells and thanks after a priceless experience

Early the next morning, we arose and set up our coffee brewing station on the pavement. While we polished off the last of the biscuits and sipped our first cuppa, the fundi arrived with his assistant while men passing on their way to milk their cows or graze their sheep stopped for a chat and to offer advice.

Within 30 minutes, Henry roared to life and we began our farewells. Yes, there was a long line of dues to be paid for truck hire, manpower, mechanic, taxi, tow-drivers, welder and security – as well as some donations to the church coffers – but they totalled a fraction of what it would have cost to replace the sump, and the experience was absolutely priceless! The campervan purred like a cheetah as it ate up the miles back to Nairobi.

Not once did either of us feel threatened or concerned. We had water, coffee makings, a good bed and money in our M-Pesa account (a fabulous Kenyan invention: mobile money). I was tense with worry about getting Henry up those hills but the magnificent villagers did the job. We met people eager to hear about us, where we were from and why we were there. They even offered to show us Alice de Janzé’s grave once Henry was mobile, but, being ready for showers and rather anxious about getting back to Nairobi, we declined. Another time.

The most amazing aspect of all of this was the casual, relaxed and accepting way in which Alan and I embraced a calamity. In return, our African Angels delivered a bush miracle; proof that trusting in people and that a solution will be found is key to campervan travel in Africa.

This feature was originally published in the April 2019 issue of Campervan magazine. This trip took place prior to the coronavirus pandemic. We are publishing it for your enjoyment and to help you plan your future trips. Read the latest camping travel advice here.