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Sticking with movie analogies: remember that scene in ‘Star Wars: a New Hope’ where Obi Wan, Luke and the two droids head to Mos Eisley Space Port to find a ship to take them to some galaxy... far, far away? No? Well, the point I’m trying to make is that Isiolo is the earthling equivalent of Mos Eisley – a final bastion of civilisation before lifting off into the unknown.

This outpost town is alive with trucks, tradesmen, missionaries and military patrols, NGOs and the occasional overlander – colourful characters clad in suitably colourful clothing, from birkas to replica football shirts to camouflage to tribal colours to dry-fit T-shirts...

We dived into this glorious collage of chaos, stocking up on supplies, refuelling the car, and enquiring as to the current security situation on the notorious Isiolo-Marsabit stretch. This involved a visit to the local police station – a ramshackle assortment of corrugated iron huts, inhabited by listless characters wearing ill-fitting fatigues and wielding a frightening array of weaponry.

We spoke to what looked to be the chief of police (at least he was the closest thing we could find – he had a desk, pens and a pad of paper) and were told that if we couldn’t tag onto a convoy the next morning we should come back to arrange an armed escort. With this, we returned to the hotel for dinner, a few beers to celebrate a certain Mr Young’s 29th birthday, and an early night.

Our 5am start looked to be too late. On arrival at the petrol station – the rendezvous point for vehicles heading north – we discovered that the day’s convoy had left at 4am. Rather than have a policeboy with an M16 ‘protect’ us from the back seat (which is, after all, strictly reserved for exotic European women and Masai) we elected to wait at a checkpoint and hope that more vehicles would pass through the course of the day.

After an hour or so, a Defender crammed with six local NGO workers hurtled towards us. With the help of the checkpoint guard, we flagged it down and inundated its occupants with questions as to their destination.

‘Marsabit,’ came the answer.

‘And the road – is it safe?’

‘If you hadn’t flagged us down we’d be on it now.’

It transpired that the six inhabitants of the Land Rover made the Isiolo-Marsabit journey on a regular basis and were willing to have us follow – providing we could keep up. At this, they sped off and we gave chase.

Thanks to 70km of newly laid tarmac, proceedings were smooth and speedy to begin with, but the road soon disintegrated into tyre-shredding disrepair, making the pursuit of our guide all the more difficult. We slid through sand, grinded over sharp rocks and into deep potholes; all the while keeping an eye out for suspect characters lurking on the roadside. There were a few nervous moments when men in dubious uniforms would rush up to the side of the road and beckoned us to stop.

Needless to say, we didn’t.

Struggling to keep on the scent of the dust trail left for us by our leaders, we were relieved to catch up with them at a small village where they’d stopped for a break. We followed them into a small concrete hut where dirty white-washed walls were adorned with football posters and hand-drawn representations of the Arsenal, Liverpool, Chelsea and Man Utd crests. Bizarrely, the words ‘We photocopy chapatti and mend eggs’ was scrawled in bold letters above a small service window to a small, dark kitchen.

‘This is the halfway point. It’s tradition to stop here for lunch.’

‘But it’s not lunchtime yet.’

‘No, but you never know if you’ll make it to Marsabit for lunch.’

We had suddenly lost our appetites.

After everyone had finished their early lunch of photocopied chapattis and mended eggs (which tasted suspiciously like regular chapatti and eggs), we resumed our rattle along the road. We were more relaxed now – our escorts assured us that the worst of the road had passed and, what’s more, all but one of the armed tribesmen cheerfully waved at us. A good sign, we thought.

Two bumpy hours later, our guide pulled into another village, popped his head out of the window and told us to proceed.

‘The road is safe now. We’ll catch you up,’ he assured.

Reluctantly taking his word for it, we continued to Marsabit...