Last I left off, my and my two friends' roadtrip through Eastern and Southern Africa was a bit stalled. Our vehicle had completely died. It was 4 a.m.-ish. We had a cohort of African truckers surrounding our Isuzu. And just figured out that our alternator was broken (Translation for non-engine-buffs: We were not going to be driving away).
Our original trucker friend, the first one to stop and help us, was the last to stay around as the rest of the would-be-rescuers dispersed as it became clear our situation was hopeless. There was an uncertain and awkward feeling in the air as we stood outside with our lone friend. We had no options; we were even out of cash at this moment (a long story…). There was no buying our way out of this. We plain and simply required some good ol' human good will.
After a bit of dancing around the topic, I mentioned to Joe the Trucker (his real name is written down in my journal, which is conveniently hiding somewhere at the moment…and “Joe” seems to be a trendy brand these days) that maybe he would consider towing us for a few miles until we found a mechanic. “Few” in this context really meant, say, one to two hundred miles, as the next dots on the map were the border towns with Zimbabwe and Zambia.
Joe hesitated, walked over to his cab, climbed in, and re-emerged with a thick rope. After knotting on, we had about ten yards between our Isuzu and the back of the truck. This was a problem. Without power brakes, we had to maintain enough slack behind the truck to not accidentally slam into its back upon a slowing down. Mark, since it was more or less his vehicle, was dubbed the one to stay awake and keep this from happening.
At this moment we were in one of the those giddily resigned states, a mix between “WTF” and “whatever.” The immediate moment was strange enough, and thinking a few steps further ahead caused a psychedelic effect upon the three of us.
As light began to crack and we took an obligatory stop to relieve ourselves, Joe told Mike that a driving force between his sudden pity on our situation was that he was terrified for our sakes that if we had stayed parked overnight where we were originally stranded, chances were that an elephant might have decided to try our Isuzu out as a new plaything.
Basically, Joe was our savior.
We finally pulled up to the border town with Zimbabwe, Pandamatenga, with our vehicle still in one piece. It was the first dot on the map we had arrived at since we began the tow, 100 km before (at about a 40 km/hr pace). Normally, this was where Joe would go north through Zimbabwe, but not during the mess the country has been in lately. Now he had to keep going north to the Zambian border.
Our more or less tacit agreement was that Joe would let us off here, at this first point of civilization. However, Pandamatenga was not really a town. It was not really anything. We did find a “mechanic”—a couple who lived in the middle of a junk yard with scattered bush vehicles lying around. They saw our white skin and began to noticeable salivate. Rule number one in negotiating prices is to be able to walk out, and we had no such option; we would have been at their mercy. Plus, we still had no cash. We would have to find a place that accepted credit card.
We needed Joe to take us another 100 kilometres north to the Zambian border, or else things were going to go from bad to worse very quickly.
And so the tale continues...
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