Stupidity and Survival in the Savannah: Part III

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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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...

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Vegi Power

The idea of driving from London to Melbourne sounds fun, but doable. To add to the adventure, we really need to impose a set of challenges upon ourselves.

The most obvious challenge to impose when going for a long drive is to pick an inadequate or abnormal vehicle. My initial inclination was towards inadequate, as a small beater would be cheap to acquire and would require less fuel. But my friend Ryan has proposed that abnormal and customized might lead to some crazier times.

Enter the vegi-oil powered car.

With little or no modifications a diesel engine can run on used vegetable oil. Just filter out the gunk and hook it up. It might be a bit tough to find used cooking oil in the quantities required while driving across Central Asia, but it the though certainly is entertaining.

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