Photography by Kingsley Holgate Foundation
Kingsley Holgate is one of my heroes, having completed 41 expeditions (and counting), all after turning 50 years old. Explorations include reaching the geographic center of Africa, which had never been done before, and circumnavigating Africa, as close to the coastline as they could, which is something that was a first with Land Rovers. Kingsley and his team also completed a circumnavigation of the globe on the Tropic of Capricorn. His journeys, along with the subsequent tales that unfold, are nothing short of inspirational.
The Kingsley Holgate Foundation has done incredible humanitarian work facilitated by their expeditions around the world and throughout Africa, distributing over a million mosquito nets to help protect young children and pregnant women from malaria infection. They’ve also supplied over 200,000 pairs of reading glasses to the people of Africa, reinstating sight and the ability to continue being a functioning part of the community—for many, this gift comes after years of not being able to read or properly see.
Now in his seventies, Kingsley continues to keep up the amazing work. It’s a wonderful reminder to us all that you’re never past your prime when it comes to adventure. You don’t need to be in your twenties to start an expedition or to make a difference. You can be in the later half of life and have an impact far greater than could ever be imagined.
It was an honor to speak to and spend time with Kingsley Holgate; he’s one of those gentlemen who have forgotten more than I’ll ever learn. His humility and awareness about the importance of giving back is a magnificent takeaway, and his vision is infectious.
Where were you born in the world?
I was born here in Zululand, north of the Tugela River. I was the youngest of three boys born of a missionary family; my mum and dad would take us all over Africa. At a very early age, we got to know about flooded rivers and [fascinating] tribes, and the purpose of these journeys was always to do good. I suppose maybe that had an effect on us, that [it] should not just be purely for the sake of the journey.
You’ve also traveled a lot with your son.
Yes, my son, Ross, who’s now just over 50. He would come home [from college] and see us sitting with all the maps and everything. At that time, we were planning a journey from Cape Town to Cairo and Alexandria on all the rivers and lakes of Africa in inflatable boats. One day, he simply couldn’t hold himself back. He said, ‘I have to be part of this journey.’ And along he came. And here he is, also living the same life. In fact, today, he does all the logistics. He’s the expedition leader on most of [our explorations], if not all. And it’s so lovely that, as a family, we’ve been able to take this tradition forward.
Recently, we traveled with my grandkids. It was fantastic. They could become entrenched in this way of life, which is such a privilege. And there is every indication they will be that way.
Out of your 41 expeditions, you sailed the length of eastern Africa in a dhow, a traditional Arab sailing vessel. Could you tell us about it?
None of us were sailors. But we are fascinated by the history of the Swahili coast: the slave trade, the spread of Arab, Phoenician, Indian, and Bantu civilizations. The trade winds, the kaskazi and kusi, were the engines of trade up the east coast of Africa. We found an old dhow, a 35-tonner with 200 square meters of sail. And we managed to buy her for a pittance against what you’d pay for a regular yacht.
We sailed this piece of maritime history down to Pemba in northern Mozambique, and there, with some fundis [tradespeople], refitted the old girl. We replanked her, resealing her with cotton waste and palm nut oil. The outside was first rubbed with shark fat. The ropes were made from dry coconut fibers. Beautiful. The old cotton sail was stitched up, and we took off. She was called Amina, Mother of Muhammad. We added the words, the Spirit of Adventure. Our aim was to reach the border with Somalia. What a challenge.
And the mutiny?
Just short of the Somali border, we had a mutiny. We’d hired two outsiders to take us around the back end of some islands where there was an old channel that wasn’t on our maps. And they’d taken our money, these two scoundrels, [but] were too afraid to go all the way to the Somali border, so they turned the crew that had been faithful to us for so many months against us. And it was at a critical part of the journey, so I interviewed each of the crew members one by one. I said to them, ‘Do you remember you’ve traveled with us for seven months now? Are you going to be a coward? Are you going to listen to us?’ And they said, ‘From what they tell us, we’ll never see our families again. Ever. There’s the Somali Navy that will kill us.’ They meant the pirates, of course. And there was a chance of that.
We took those two [fellows] who had caused the mutiny and gave them marching orders to walk all the way back to Lamu [in Kenya]. And then we told the crew to hang on with the dhow, because it took 12 people to sail. We took the inflatable boats [through] the backwaters of the mangroves and got to the border with Somalia. We even photographed the navigational markers that were still decorated with old Chinese porcelain. On our way back, we stopped, bought a goat, had it slaughtered, cut up into pieces, and put in a bag. My son Ross said, ‘What’s that for?’ I said, ‘You’ll see.’ We got back to the dhow, and there was all our mutinied crew who couldn’t believe we were still alive. Ross took them out on the inflatable boat into the middle of the lagoon and said, ‘We’ve made it, we’ve survived. What are you going to tell my father?’ They came back on shore and, one by one, apologized. I said, gentlemen, let’s sit around the fire. Bring out the goat meat. And we had a massive celebration and they sailed with us all the way back down to Lamu.
You create and keep these massive, beautiful scrolls. How do they work?
I’m not sure how it started, but I think it’s because we like writing. And we like writing by hand. Bit old-fashioned, I know. I don’t have a laptop. But, sitting, sunrise, under the veranda of your tent, under the canvas with an old camp table and canvas chair, take out your book. Take your pencil, your pen, and write the notes of the previous day’s journey. Once it becomes a habit, it’s quite fulfilling. And it’s a type of discipline.
We were approached by a good friend of ours, Rob Melvill from Melvill and Moon, [to make] us a big book for each journey: 200 pages, beautifully bound, leather and canvas, carried in a specific canvas bag. Scrolls of peace and goodwill, a visitor’s book. So, the tradition started.
People would scribble, and people would draw. We’d meet kids who’d be fascinated by the adventure, talk to them around the campfire, or go to their school and talk about wildlife and conservation, and we’d trace their little handprints into the pages.
In northern Kenya, Samburu ladies, in their beautiful beaded finery with their red ochre bodies, would simply take their hands, rub their bodies, and put a red handprint into the scroll.
These books became an important part of each and every expedition. I remember when the great man, Nelson Mandela, was released from prison, and a wind of positive change was blowing across our country. Nelson Mandela [gave] us some of his precious time, and with us sitting with him as a family [he opened a] scroll [from our journey] tracking the entire outline of Africa. In his strong hand, he wrote, Thank you for supporting the people of Africa and for caring for the mothers and children as you travel, and then he signed it. And you know, that picture of us sitting with Madiba and his message in that scroll, in a way, became more important than a passport.
How long do you take on average to reflect after your journeys?
Sometimes not enough immediately, and then you tend to reflect a lot later. It’s a bit of a luxury to get back. [You] maybe don’t tell everybody you’re home yet—just sneak in, kick off your shoes, and get into a soft bed with clean sheets. That can be pretty nice. [Maybe] a week, two weeks, to sit with all your notes while they’re still fresh in your mind and think about all the stories and the people you met.
I mean, if you think of that old early Scottish explorer, Dr. David Livingstone, why was he different from others? It was because he took so much effort to record things. Little maps, little notebooks. And that’s why his journeys live on today. Every morning, we try to take out the notebook, scribble the details of [the previous day] and what happened, who we met, people’s names, and a little sketch down the margin.
I remember crossing the widest part of Australia and meeting a delightful old Aboriginal. Instead of asking me my name or what we were doing, he said, ‘So what’s your story, mate?’ And it’s always stuck with me—your life is more about the story.
I think that’s the African way [too]. It’s about sharing [your] story around the campfire. Loading firewood as you go, the sparks flying into the starlit sky, pouring your favorite tipple into your old enamel mug.
What do you feel is a key ingredient to becoming an expedition member?
Be fit—able to face challenges and live a tough life. The most important thing is curiosity, though. Because if you’re not curious, if you don’t want to know what happens in that village, or around the corner, or over that mountain, or up the river, it’s just another journey for the sake of the journey. A sense of humor [also comes into play]. There are times when your life is threatened, but to be able to laugh at it and enjoy the moment after, to forget the negativity, is positive thinking. Yes, we can do it. And sometimes, it might even be a bit unreal. If your motivation is always to seek the good, then it’s a bit easier. Wonderful word, ubuntu [humanity to others]. [When] we are sitting around the pot, everyone sharing a few pieces of meat and some maizemeal porridge, eating with your fingers and hands, in that camaraderie, that sense we’re all born to—we are who we are only through other people. And I think that guides us [to] create a better world. I know we are but a grain of sand in the greater sphere of things, but it does give us purpose.
How long ago did you drive around the world on the Tropic of Capricorn?
Fifteen years ago, at least, maybe a little more, and we had those old Defender Td5s: two standard station wagons and the big old 130, that long wheelbase. It was such a great expedition vehicle with just the right sort of power-to-weight ratio and what you can load and everything.
We took off on a mission to track the Tropic of Capricorn because it was [an intrinsic] part of ancient Gondwanaland before the continents split. And I thought, it’s all still linked by that Tropic of Capricorn. So off we went, starting on the coast of Mozambique.
What challenges did you face?
The land mines were such an issue. Here, you’ve got your GPS on the dashboard: 23 degrees, 27, and you’re following this invisible line. We did a book called Following the Invisible Line. It’s crazy. Because what are you following? It doesn’t exist. But you stick to it, and then you know you get so determined to follow this line. We gave ourselves the rule to not deviate more than 50 kilometers north or south of the line. You had to really be careful, follow cattle tracks, ask people, be cautious at old bridges—such luck. I remember getting to the Kruger National Park, and at that time, a lot of illegal immigrants were crossing from Mozambique across Kruger to work in the gold mines in South Africa. Our guide said, ‘You have to be careful here. Walking along this path, the lions can get you because they’ve gotten used to the soft target of human beings.’ [When I asked] how to avoid the risk, he said, ‘No sex for seven days. Then when you get to your first elephant track, having previously visited a sangoma (diviner or witch doctor), you must make a rope of grass and put it around the elephant footprint, and you must step over it gingerly with respect and chant certain words, and then you won’t be killed by lions.’
That’s worth knowing, I thought. And so we jompa Jozi [slang for jumped to Johannesburg] as it were, and I remember we tracked on foot, supported by the vehicles. We walked with this giant of a game ranger nicknamed “Mabarula,” after a famous chief. He told us of how he had come across a tree where four or five people had already been dragged down and eaten by a pride of lions. There was one person left up the tree who’d completely lost his mind, understandably. Marabula also told us to be careful. Anyway, we made it across.
The entire journey took a year and a half.
Yes, it was a grand adventure. The Land Rovers made it; the team made it. And I asked them, ‘Would you ever follow an invisible line again?’ ‘Ha,’ they said, ‘No, because it really doesn’t exist.’ I remember one time in South America we had to go through a building that was dead on 23 degrees 27. And it was a house of ill repute. So we went into the back door and were thrown out the front by the bouncers [laughs]. [It was] every day on the GPS, there are no roads through the sand dunes in the Western deserts of Australia. The Australian authorities said, ‘We can’t back you on this, mate. Crows are going to pick your eyes out, or the brown snake’s going to get you.’ I said, ‘So what about the flying doctor?’ ‘Where you are going, mate, no flying doctor service is going to find you. You’re on your own.’ That crossing of Capricorn bound us all together.
You’ve mostly used Land Rovers for your journeys. And Land Rover has been an incredible support to your expeditions and your malaria work. What Land Rovers are you currently using now, and how have they been working out for the cause?
Green definitely runs in our veins. We like the ethos of Land Rovers, those old ones we used to use in the early days, the Series One, Two, and Threes; we’ve used them a lot. And now, here we are in this modern age with the new technically advanced Defender. In 2022, we took three of them from Cape Agulhas, the southernmost point of Africa, all the way to Nordkapp, the northernmost point that you can drive a vehicle to in the Arctic Circle. We called it Hot Cape to Cold Cape. Ross had a diagnostics computer with him, and we only had one incident, which turned out to be a faulty battery.
We made it all the way there, right across Africa, and then right across Eastern Europe, dodging around Ukraine, then through Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Finland, Norway, followed by a dash down to Wales, where the first Land Rover was drawn in the sand at Anglesey, 75 years before our arrival. We took our Landies out in low tide, these modern vehicles out to sea, as it were. The news got out so quickly, that suddenly, the Land Rover Club of Anglesey was there to wish us well. That was our first test for these new Defenders, and we put them through their paces. Standard suspension, everything standard, and we load them to the hilt. Why? Because of all the humanitarian items.
Speaking of which, how many malaria nets do you think you’ve distributed over the last 30 years?
Well, over a million nets with education for pregnant mums and mums with children under the age of five. I must say that when you get to a village, it’s [heartbreaking] to hear a mother screaming, [her] child dying, maybe in a coma, maybe a hundred miles or so to the nearest hospital by dugout canoe. And you realize that’s a life that could [have been] saved by a simple mosquito net. I mean, I’ve had malaria countless times. Our whole team suffers from malaria constantly; it’s a way of life in what we do—the areas we camp in, the sleeping under the stars.
How do you get a sense that you have malaria, and then do you take the test, the small little swab test?
Yes, we carry malaria tests with us. Truth be told, we’ve gotten so used to identifying the symptoms that we instantly know. You feel you’ve been hit with a baseball bat [around your kidneys] and fatigued, with headaches, nausea, the squirts, or both. And you realize you’re coming down with malaria. It’s up to every expedition member to carry Coartem, which is the present-day drug that you use as a cure. You put it in the cubbyhole of the Land Rover, in your personal bag, hidden in various places. You don’t want to run out. And we treat ourselves instantly. And that’s the only reason I’m talking to you today is because of quick treatment. Otherwise, we’d be dead.
What did you do before Coartem?
It’s been available for, say, 10 years at least. Before that, quinine tablets or quinine injections, which makes your ears ring—you feel nauseous. Even today, if the Coartem doesn’t work, the last resort is quinine. We’ve had malaria so many times and even had someone die in the Land Rover. We saw what was happening [in villages] and knew that [distributing nets] was the right thing to do.
Describe the mission behind Mashozi’s Rite to Sight campaign.
It’s one that’s so close to our hearts because my late wife, Mashozi, started it. It happened on that journey to circumnavigate the globe on the Tropic of Capricorn. We were in Peru, at a place where the authorities were removing an old man living alone who they felt was a danger to himself because he couldn’t see properly. Mashozi said, ‘All this guy needs is a pair of reading glasses.’ And she happened to have the correct strength in her bag. [After putting them on], he smiled, easily struck a match to light his stove, and was allowed to stay. As we drove out of there, Mashozi turned to me, and she said, ‘Kingsley, I don’t care what it takes. If we have to bond our house, whatever we have to sell, it’s unacceptable, just as it’s unacceptable that a child dies from malaria.’ So we learned how to do the eye tests. We’ve given out about 250,000 pairs [of glasses so far].
And do you also distribute prescription glasses?
No, just reading glasses. We can’t carry sophisticated eye testing equipment, but we can carry all the charts necessary for reading glasses. It’s very easy. And 90 percent of all eyesight problems in Africa can be solved by a simple pair of readers. Amazing the difference it makes. You can read your Bible again, you can read the Quran, you can do beadwork, your craftwork. I remember an old Maasai woman who had [previously] made a living from doing beadwork. When she got the right strength glasses, she could use a needle to pick up the red bead, the blue bead, the green bead, and she could see again and make a living. And the little community around her all clapped their hands and cheered. She’d gotten her life back.
When we were in the Tugen Hills in the Great Rift Valley of Kenya, we were on the veranda of an old trading store, and this old codger came up—one leg, a homemade crutch. I said, what happened to you? He said he’d gotten ridden over by a tractor and couldn’t farm anymore. He’d learned to become a cobbler, fixing shoes for the community. [But he couldn’t see well enough to] thread the needle anymore. I remember the strength he took; it was 2.75. He shouted to his grandson, ‘Bring me my equipment.’ His grandson came running over with a little anvil and a half-finished shoe. The thread was still there, the tools, and straight away, he got back to being the cobbler for the community. The crowd roared; they’d gotten their cobbler back. All from a simple pair of reading glasses that we take for granted.
It’s a lot of work. [But if we] stopped the humanitarian [aspect], you’d remove the soul from our expeditions.
How do people find out more about what you do?
Fortunately, Sheelagh, my partner, is good at writing. So she takes my scribbles from the notebook and turns them into great [sagas], stories from the heart. Anyone interested can follow us [on Facebook]; you’ll instantly become part of our journeys, and what you’d be doing for us is adding to the feeling of solidarity that we’re not traveling alone. And if you were to follow those, you’d get a good idea of how the expeditions roll, the humanitarian work, and all the other good stuff. The Kingsley Holgate Foundation website is also a way to get to know more about us. A few dollars go a long way.
When did you start growing your beard?
I suppose it’s typical of a young man who finds his freedom. And I did have quite a strict upbringing. My parents suggested I shouldn’t leave South Africa until I turned 21. [It was part of my rite of passage]; I grew this short cropped black beard [to match my] black curly hair. And I took off with a rucksack on my back, as was the fashion in those days (we’re talking about the sixties here). I traveled to 35 countries and found work wherever I could. And so the beard got fuller and blacker. And it’s just been a way of life [since then].
Sometimes, in those early days, I’d get respect from people who were beyond my years. Having the big beard and hat, sitting quietly with my back up against a tree, just nodding, agreeing, and slowly talking gave me a seniority I didn’t necessarily deserve.
Nowadays, of course, at 77, pushing 78 in a few weeks, the beard is sort of a persona. But it’s really lovely when you’re sitting with Africans, and you get greeted as Mkhulu (Grandfather). And yeah, it gives you a bit of leeway.
What advice would you give those thinking of starting out on their own grand adventures?
A lot of youngsters come to me and ask, ‘How can we possibly adventure?’ You don’t have to have the fanciest of vehicles. You just have to have the attitude, a mission, a vision, and to know exactly what you want to do. Give it a day, an arbitrary date to leave—you’d be surprised at the energy that gathers. But the most important thing you have to do is turn the key. Turn the key, and you’ll be absolutely surprised at what you can do. It’s the moment you stop talking [and start doing], the symbolic beginning of a new adventure.
Do you see an end in sight to your way of life?
People sometimes come to me, and they say, ‘So, when are you going to hang up your boots?’ I get a little offended. I’m just getting started. You’d have to live 10 lifetimes, and you’d only begin. And they say, ‘But what is there still to discover?” And I say, ‘Maybe no one’s ever stood on the top of that hill. Or you’d be lucky enough to be part of a tribal ceremony that is quite unique.’ There’s always something more to learn. Then, they might ask me what I want on my epitaph. Hopefully, it would be a very simple sign that could just read, Thank you, Mama Africa. That would be good enough for me.
For more words of wisdom from Kingsley Holgate, listen to Scott Brady’s full interview with the legend on the Overland Journal Podcast on YouTube or link directly to the interview from Expedition Portal.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in Overland Journal’s Spring 2025 Issue.
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