Stupidity and Survival in the Savannah: Part II

The much-maligned Isuzu by the time it limped backed to Nairobi

Continued from Part I. As a quick rewind, my two friends and I are stranded at 4 am in a Botswanan game area after our vehicle died. We are at least 100 km from any village.

We sat in silence for a few seconds. Having been on the Sub-Saharan roads for 20-some days at this point, we had been through our share of unwelcome surprises so far. Wearily discussing our options, it was clear our only real hope of moving anytime soon was to wave down another vehicle that could give the Isuzu another jump start.

Mike, the third companion on the trip, grabbed a pillow (I have no idea why) and a flashlight and stood on the side of the road. Now, “waving down a passing vehicle” in this context was not exactly a simple task. No other personal cars are dumb enough to drive through these parts of Africa that late at night; our savior would have to be a trucker.

Forturnately, the first trucker who came by halted and opened his door. Only later did he tell us that in fact the only reason he had stopped was due to the perception that Mike was pointing a gun at him underneath the pillow. (Mike, it should be noted, is a massive 280 pound, six-foot five half-Kenyan rugby player—our gut instinct that Mike as half-black would get a better reception than either of us two wazungu was in hindsight probably a bit shortsighted.)

After convincing the trucker that he was not brandishing a gun, Mike then succeeded in pleading the trucker not to drive away the minute he realized he was not in fact in dire harm. Unfortunately, the trucker did not have any jumper cables. Luckily, though, our new-found-friend agreed to help us wave down the next truck that rolled by.

With the first truck parked on the side of the road, we had no problem getting the next batch of trucks to stop as well. Eventually, we had a group of seven or eight African truckers huddled around our SUV. Trial and error soon proved that jump-starting was not the solution.

Although half of the group were looking under the hood of the car and discussing amongst themselves, the other half were rather apprehensively shining flashlights all around the surrounding bush terrain. I asked them what they were looking out for. “Lions,” was the reply. “They attack all around this region. We never walk outside our trucks in this area.”

I took that as my cue to climb back in the Isuzu and courageously observe the proceedings through the windshield.

Eventually, the truckers came to a conclusion: the alternator was broken. The battery was dead as was not going to recharge. We weren’t going to be driving anywhere anytime soon.

Part III coming shortly...