The Road to Ghat

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There were 7 of us in my 4-wheel drive Nissan Patrol: myself, Sue, Emma (18 months old), Ali and Mustafa Gibril, Grant Thompson and Trina Keyes. We were heading for Ghat, an isolated oasis village in the far southwestern corner of Libya. We had covered the 500 miles of road from Tripoli through Sebha to Ubari, and now we were bumping along on a desert track 50 miles west of Ubari.

Ali looked worried even before we ran into trouble

There was a terrible grinding noise from the left front wheel. Then the Nissan pulled sharply to the left and we jerked to a stop.

A wheel bearing had gone! We didn’t have a spare and there was absolutely no way we were going to get the Nissan moving again without a new bearing.

Grant and I talked about trying to walk the 50 miles back to Ubari but Ali reminded us that the first, second and third rule of desert breakdowns is to stay with the vehicle. So we all sat down on the sand in the hope that another vehicle would come by before too long.

Waiting for rescue

We needn’t have worried. Within half-an-hour a dot appeared on the horizon. It got closer and bigger. And closer. And bigger. It was just like the scene in “Lawrence of Arabia” when Omar Sharif makes his first appearance. Except in our case the dot resolved itself into a large truck and trailer rather than Omar Sharif.

The truck drew up, the driver’s side window opened and a smiling black face looked down at us. In perfect British-accented English the driver said, “Good afternoon. May I help you ladies and gentlemen?”

It turned out that the driver, who was Sudanese, lived about six houses away from us in Tripoli.

This kind of thing happens only in Libya!

Our rescuer gave Ali and me a ride to Sebha, where our luck held and we found a suitable wheel bearing. The next day, he drove us 150 miles back to where the others were patiently waiting by the Nissan.

Unfortunately, our breakdown and the repairs had taken up two days and now there was not enough time left for us to visit Ghat. This was a disappointing ending to the trip – but not as bad an ending as we could have faced.

P.S.

Ali Gibril looked anxious throughout the trip and he told us not to mention his and Mustafa's last name to anyone we met. After we got back to Tripoli, he told us why. His grandfather had been a traditional Touareg man in the Ubari-Ghat area: that is, he made a living by robbing travellers and killing those who resisted. (This was the only type of work permitted to men under the Touareg code of honour.) Ali was afraid that local people might still remember this and be bound by blood feud laws to seek revenge on Ali and Mustafa.