Around the world in 80 months

Af family discovers the trials, trails and tribulations of traveling 30,000 miles in a one-horse trailer e are the Grant family: father David, mother Kate, daughter Elidh (15) and sons Torcuil (17) and Fionn (12). We come from Scotland and think we are a normal family, with one pose exception: for the past six years we have been traveling around the world in a trailer-a one horse-power trailer.

The idea of making an extended trip took shape sitting by the fire during several wet, cold and windy winters. Having young children restricted our options for means of travel. Walking and bicycling were out. Yachting had limitations-I do not know a spanker from a spinnaker, Kate gets seasick and you cannot step outside to go for a walk. The thought of changing a flat tire on a converted bus or truck in the middle of the Gobi Desert did not appeal. Winnebago was a Native American tribe and the initials "RV" were unknown to us at that time.

One day, in an Irish magazine, I saw an article about horse-drawn holiday caravans. There was a picture of a skewbald horse pulling a colorful, gypsy-style wagon. That was it! I had enough riding experience to cope with managing a horse. And it could not be difficult learning to drive if people could learn on a week's vacation.

Eighteen months later we owned our own purpose-built wagon, had crossed the North Sea, bought a horse in Holland and were ready to roll. We had sold our house to finance the venture, having failed to attract enough sponsorship. Our goal was nothing less than to be first around the world with a horse-drawn caravan [European for trailer] .

Our caravan was built of light pine planking on a timber frame, insulated with polystyrene, and it rested on a marine-grade plywood floor that was bolted to a box-section chassis. The roof was also plywood, polystyrene lined and finished on the inside with burlap held in place by wood straps. The interior was fitted with similar equipment to any trailer, including a shower, a portable toilet and a propane stovetop. There were three beds and two bunks, hanging space and under-bed storage. There was also a small wood-burning stove with an oven. Power was to come from a small, portable wind-generator.

We set off late in 1990, in October, heading south out of the Netherlands, through Belgium and into France. Offy, our part-Belgian horse, pulled well. He was docile enough to be driven by the children, then aged 10, 9 and just 6.

The hazards of traveling under horse-power are quite different from those associated with mechanical vehicles. Our speed of three or four miles per hour in itself was not dangerous, but with any animal there is an unpredictability factor. A sudden fright can startle even the quietest horse. The thoughtless to downright dangerous behavior of a small minority of drivers occasionally caused us heart-stopping moments. We, ourselves, had to be aware our slow pace presented a potential hazard, especially on narrow or twisting roads.

As we wended our way up the River Meuse, past Reims Cathedral and toward the fringes of Paris, several things became apparent. First, Offy was a grand, willing beast, but simply not big enough to haul our ton-plus wagon day in and day out. We would have to change him. Secondly, we had over-equipped ourselves and would need to reduce the weight of our load. The wind-generator was discarded in favor of kerosene lamps and candles; the portable toilet was replaced by a trowel and the nearest bush; the shower, which was clumsy, went also. Thirdly, my fanaticism about safety, not always appreciated by the family, was justified. Eilidh had her foot run over by one of the wagon's wheels when it inadvertently rolled back. No damage was done but it reinforced the lesson that vigilance was required all the time.

Offy was found a good home and replaced by Traceur, a 6-year-old Bretoncross-Percheron gelding weighing over 1,800 pounds. We wintered on the farm where we bought him, near Avignon in the south of France, working him up to fitness and helping with the other 20 draft horses there. By February 1991, the interior of the caravan had been further remodeled, saving even more weight.

Our first months had taught us there was no intrinsic difficulty with our chosen mode of transport. Home-schooling worked well; the risks were no greater than might be found on any farm; the benefits enormous. We were ready now to start the journey in earnest, heading east.

We traversed the French Riviera and Italy's Ligurian coast; crossed the Ligurian Alps; followed the Po Valley for miles, then turned northeast to Austria. A visit (by train) to Venice had been accomplished, despite Torcuil's recently-removed appendix and the fact that Eilidh was on crutches after breaking a bone in her foot when she fell off Traceur Our second winter was spent in newlyindependent, still-unrecognized Slovenia. It had been the northern province of Yugoslavia when we entered and should have taken 14 days to cross. However, our first night there Traceur became ill with a liver infection. By the time he was better, we had experienced the birth of a new nation and 10 days of war which precipitated the start of the still-unfinished Balkan troubles. It was also too late to travel on before winter I obtained a job preparing a management plan for a proposed new nature reserve, Kate taught English and the children went to Dravograd Osnovna Skola (primary school). Ourwages were not high but they included the use of a small apartment.

The following spring we set off again, only to hear Gorbachev had been ousted. The situation in the Soviet Union looked extremely volatile. We decided to remain in Slovenia, where we now had many friends and the children were fluent in the language, until the outcome was clear. Not until August did we have fresh health papers prepared for Traceur, yet again, for a border crossing, this time for Hungary.

A leisurely swing through Hungary brought us to Mezokovesd in the northeast, where we rented a house for our third winter. Meantime, the USSR had ceased to exist. In Budapest, I obtained Ukrainian visas at their brand-new embassy. April 1993 found us crossing the Carpathians, appalled at the poverty, living off produce bought from individuals because the shop shelves were empty.

We had learned the Cyrillic alphabet and rudimentary Russian during the winter, so we could read road signs and maps and hold basic conversations. It took three months to reach one of the newly-instigated Ukrainian/Russian border-posts. We were the first foreigners to cross it. I was glad indeed I had obtained Russian visas (also valid for Kazakhstan) in Kiev and had not relied on the suggestion made by the Russian consulate in Budapest that "You can use your Ukrainian visas. We have no frontier with Ukraine." Changes in bureaucracy were occurring fast.

All through the former USSR we were greeted with great friendliness and hospitality. This was the "Evil Empire?" Who, we wondered, had been conning whom all those cold war years. People were just people everywhere we went, often the poorest being the most generous. In Russia there was also tremendous hardship, and in Kazakhstan we met farm workers who had been unpaid for a year

In the countryside, we were never robbed, but had a harness stolen in the town of Karabulak. And, while we were in Ulan Bator, Mongolia's capital, Kate's pocket was picked.

Mongolia is unlike anywhere else. Bigger than Alaska and unpolluted, most of its 2.3 million inhabitants are nomadic herders who live on milk products and mutton. We, ourselves, ate seven sheep in three and a half months, driving the unpaved road to Ulan Bator. Only trouble from drunks marred our stay in this unique culture, where horses dominate. Self-defense against three men apparently trying to steal Traceur resulted in court action, a long delay and an unbudgeted expenditure of $6,000.

China had refused us permission to cross by the Silk Road from Kazakhstan. Now, we were admitted from Mongolia, only to be stopped at Jining and ordered out for no given reason.

We didn't even see the Great Wall! We passed it at 3 a.m., trucking everything to the coast under police escort but at our expense. There, we were not allowed to seek out a boat for North America but were put aboard a ferry to Japan. This cost $5,000 for two days' sail. Then, on arrival in Japan, we were presented with a bill of $6,300 for quarantine expenses. The sale proceeds from our house had dwindled almost to its foundation.

No shipper would take live animals to the United States from Japan, but Wilhelmsen Lines of Norway generously took the caravan free. We still needed $13,000 to meet even the much-discounted air-freight charge for Traceur from Japan Air Lines, air-fares for the family and U.S. import quarantine charges. Television and newspapers publicized our plight, and donations came flooding in. The local Baha'i community coordinated collection. Two firms bought advertising space on the wagon. In November 1995 we reached America.

Tragedy struck in 1996. Having crossed the Sierra Nevada, we sojourned in sage brush in Nevada and Oregon, we followed the Snake River across Idaho, we back-tracked the Oregon Trail over the Continental Divide, we visited misnamed Devil's Tower and had almost reached the Missouri River when Traceur fell ill. Very ill. He had contracted equine protozoal myeloencephalitis (EPM).

For days he was at death's door, but slowly recovered and by early December was looking fine. Then, one morning, Eilidh found him dead. A postmortem examination discovered a large tumor deep in his brain, unrelated to the EPM, which had killed him.

Traceur was not just a horse, he was part of our family. We had come far and done much together. He was irreplaceable, and we mourn his loss still.

We endured South Dakota's worst winter for decades in a small rented house in Mobridge. At last, in February 1997, I faced the task of finding another horse. She is called Bertha, a 6-year-old Belgian lass, over 17 hands and with legs that would not disgrace Betty Grable. She shaped up well, with a sweet disposition and a kindly eye.

The arrival in Halifax in mid-November 1997 meant the journey's end. Just the Atlantic crossing remains. With only a few miles still to go, I reflect on the past seven years as Bertha jogs along through beautiful Canadian landscapes. Has it been worth it? The monetary cost of $60,000-$70,000 was not high for a family, a horse and, much of the time, two dogs, though we have almost nothing left now. However, we are immensely rich in wonderful experiences.

Our children have some leeway to make up in their studies, but are self-reliant, self-confident and upright citizens. What have we learned? That the world is a small, fragile ball, inhabited mainly by friendly, hospitable people, regardless of nation, race, color or creed.

In another existence I was an ecologist/wildlife manager, but my future no longer lies there. The six months following our return must be spent writing the book about our adventures. After that? The future is still shrouded in mystery. It is enough for the moment to have almost completed our unique journey. TL

Copyright T L Enterprises, Inc. Feb 1998
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved