My politically incorrect African travels and adventures.

[Maplotter]

....

I have a great love of traveling, of driving, of cruising the back roads of Africa in search of the new and unexpected. I have also met people who have become lifetime friends, and whose adventures I have in turn become a part of. Adventures so strange that you just have to accept as fact because they are too crazy to be made up.

Like the bar counter in Mano's pub hidden in the back of Rundu Takeaway.

Mano owned the emporioum known as Rundu Take Away. With its virtually 100% black clientelle,and an unoffical 'No Whites Allowed' policy, he had a private section in the back where He, his famil, friends and casual visitors would hang out in the back while the black customers partied up front in most riotous manner.

Now, being one that belives in travelling with what could be conservatively considered an adequate amount of alcohol, I was fairly well stocked as I departed Grootfontein in search of hitherto untravelled roads. Untravelled by me that is.

Now, here's the thing. I had on occasion been called on to do favors for military personel up north, and while short of coin, they had access to very cheap alcohol, and Brian BeeBop dove one of the trucks that would on occasion transport said alcohol up to the border towns, you may deduce that I would end up with a fair amount of alcohol that I aquired for a very reasonable price.

You see, I/we had a mate Footloose (who stood on a landmine in Angola), that drove a fuel truck for shell, and in the morning he would chuck in 30 000 liters and then head out to the garage for his first delivery stop.

Now, how we came to be in charge of the garage at Omitara is a story in itself. But the very very very short version was we found this deserted garage next to a hotel in the thriving megapolis of Omitara white population 6. Now, Oom Kallie was the local chamber of commerce owning the bar, shop, hotel, butcher and garage. The Willemses, making up the rest of the population ran the Koperasie.

So, the day our bike clup ended up in Omitara we checked out the garage and Vic and I ended up scoring the garage for free in return for keeping Oom Kallies truck running. He would do a once weekly run to Windhoek and he wanted somoen to handle maintenance, and considering that a service in the shop was more convenient than a call out to fix a broken down truck half way between here and there , we kept the truck maintained in an impeccable mechanical state, and it never broke down.

Now Footloose, who rode with us, on his Kwacker 1000, also drove a tanker for shell, and he would leave early and get to Omitara at dawn, Us being the first stop on the Gobabis run, and he would put the overflow of the tanker into tank. And as the sun rose, it would bake down on the tanker, heating it up, and the chockenblock filled fuel tanker would start to overflow. And you could see how 1% of 30 000 liters would be 300 liters, and every time he came through, we would have a slap up breakfast and kuiertjie for a few hours, and the fuel tanker that arived with 30 000 liters of cooler fuel would leave with 30 000 liters of slightly warmer fuel

You see, we never stole, but we had our ways of scraping the cream off the top in such a way that no one noticed.

Now, being one that believes in the leverage of assets, you can follow how Beebop, who rode a Delmas Kuikens Kwacker, would on occasion come out on the breakfast run to Omitara, (the Omitara garage being the clubs home from home) and on occasion with a fair number of bottles in his camper which he would exchange for petrol at a most favorable rate. You see, the going price of a bottle of whiskey on the border was R 1.00, and he would do favors for the guys on the border in exchange for a couple of cases. (Things like taking a car or something down on an empty truck)

Said bottles that he got for free were exchanged for fuel which we got for free ... you can see how it worked.

Only problem was that one would end up building up a fair stockpile of bottles of whiskey and brandy and rum and so on. And since Oom Kallie had the monopoly on alcohol sales in Omitara, we had to find an alternative outlet for our stockpil ... cos, no matter how hard you try, at an exchange rate of a liter of booze for a liter of fuel, you arent going to work your way through several hundred liters a day, no matter how brave you are.

So, the only thing to do is to hit the road with 2 x 44 galon drums of gas on the back and several cases of whiskey secreted around the Hilux (guess where).

Being an electronics tekkie that knows computers and cash registers and video game machines, I could, armed with my negotiable skill set, even more negotiable cargo and 400 liters of gas head off in search of adventure.

I would stop in at various shebeens, cafe's and kuka shops and service their cash registers and video games. Score some bux and head on further down the road.

....

[Maplotter]

....

And so, it was thus departing Grootfontein that I picked up two hikers, Hans and Armand-Guy, and over the course of the 3 hour drive, having polished a bottle or two between us, gotten lekker dronk, and sobered up again, we rolled into the hamlet of Rundu, and in search of something to eat, our eye fell on a sign that said 'Rundu Takeaway' and wandered into said establishment enquiring after a beer and a menu.

To be informed that 'We do not serve whites here!'

Now Armand-Guy being the son of a wealthy Parisienne lawyer and Hans being the son of a Swiss hotel owner, backpacking through the war zones of Africa in search of adventure, and being naievely ignorant of the racial nuances that manifest in the ale houses of border towns asked in very broken, semi drunk 'Swiss/French/german' ...

'Vell, vere doo yoo serf der vites den?'
The barman, confronted with three large fellows with beards, in well worn and dusty travelling gear with a vatikaki attitude and no desire to depart this place of refreshment, reverted to his primary directive which basically read as 'When in doubt - call the Boss!'
With a surprising loud voice in a shebeen that had suddenly become surprisingly quiet he bellowed out 'MANU!'

A short balding Portugese guy popped head around the door.
'These guys want a drink!' in Potuguese
With a somewhat dubious expression he told his man to refer us to the lodge. However if there is one skill that a Swiss hotellier acquires early in his training it is a knowledge of linguistics
'Whats wrong with having a beer here? asks Hans in porra.
Well it was like somoene turned on the friendly switch. Manu said something like 'Dont worry, they are not whites, they are Europeans' to the predominantly Angolan from over the river clientelle and everyone went back to doing what they had been doing.

So what is a bunch of Angolans doing drinking in a bar in Rundu? Well, the South Africans had blown the beejeezus out of Calai on the other side of the river which included their shebeen, so a few days after hostilities tapered off, The Angolans would cross the river and they ended up in the only ale house run by a Portuguese and no one seemed to mind as long as they left their weapons on the other side.

Well, Manu showed us into the private bar at the back where his family, one or two lodge owners and hunter types and a couple of Koefoet guys were having an equally boisterous session.

Thus was my intro to Mano and Rundu Takeaways. Where the soldiers they eyed each other over the river during the day partied riotously through the night under the same roof, allbeit with one group in the private bar and the other group in the public bar, and of all the times I kuiered there, never once a hint of tension between the members of either bar. Altercations between those in the same bar on occasion, but never any cross bar agression. Some things are sacred.

Such are the idiosynchrassies of Africa.

We travellers, the porras, the hunters, the lodge owner and the Koevoet guys drank solidly till passout time and made ourselves comfortable on the rooftop, till we were aroused by our bladders, droebek, sonskyn en kopseer

To be continued (the highlights so I dont forget)

We are arrested for beating up the Koevoet guys in Rundu (Who us? never did! No Way.)
We walk and talk and roar with the lions of rundu (Oversized mangy rubbish dump cats - Janee, ons was die oorspronklike ouens wat ge-leeuloop het)
We smokkel booze into Angola through the war zone (At R 100.00 per bottle, you betcha)
A hoseboat full of German tourists capsizes into the Okavango right in front of us (The funniest thing I ever saw)
And we break the Hilux, so we scale the parts off the Hilux of the OC of Omega base to fix it. (Well, it was our taxes that bought it)

Ok, its dawn, and time to start the day. Cheers Ouens.

[OOOOMS]

Interesting so far

Sorry only saw part 2 now

[zepplin]

Good stuff Mike!!

Not the story but the stuff you smoke...........Where can I get some??

[Maplotter]

Shhh, jy praat van groot dinge daar.

Ok, the chickens are fed, and the Huurders have gone to work and I have a fresh cup of coffee, so, the saga continues

We wake up in the morning in our African Penthouse (the rooftop lined with Sandbags - mortar protection) and a low wall of sandbags around the side, and matrasses on the roof, and cammo netting, and we park there on the army matrasses watching the border town of Rundu come to life.

On the far side there is a line of people waiting for the mokoro's to cross the river and pick them up, while a truck delivers the first load of villagers, from the villages a bit back from the river, to the river side, otherwise known as 'Rundu Beach'

The men are sitting on the beach drinking beer while the mama's, naked to the waist are bathing and doing their washing in the river. Naked children are playing in the shallows between the mama's and the shore.

The first of the mokoro's brings some of the Angolans over the river where the men on the beach help them ashore, where they then dissolve into the town. The mokoro's cross back over the river for their next load. The mokoro being the water taxi of Africa, and you would even on occasion see one being dragged down the road behind an ox.

The morning ablutions completed, and the water cans filled from upstream of the beach the crowd boards the truck and heads off to return half an hour later with the inhabitants of the next town.

And not a soldier in sight. A peacefull rural scene and only the occasional chopper or Mirage passing overhead, and the occasional Buffel going down the road to remain one that this is in fact still a conflict zone.But, on the river, the free flow of people back and forth with not a soldier in sight. It was how it was before the war arived in Rundu, and it continues pretty much the same after the war left Rundu. Cross border traffic thriving and not a passport or guard in sight.

Well for us, the morning peace was broken by the arival of a Kovoet unit at Monu's looking for the three of us and we are arrested for assaulting the Koevoet members that were in the bar the previous night. We were taken down to the local police station and thoroughly interrogated by a Koevoet officer for about an hour. A fairly scary process I can tell you.

Anyway, it turns out to be a crock, because the one Koevoet guy beat up his mate in a dronk brawl on the way home and the next morning they decided that it would be easier to blame some tourists that were passing through last night. Only we were still there and thus the events unfolded.

Seeing as that we had no bruises or abrasions on our fists or faces and they did, it was obvious that the only fisticuffs hat been between them, a far more amicable officer gave us a ride in the buffel back to Mano's which was now becomming our unoffical 'home-from-home'. We all went up to the penthouse and proceeded to replace the fluids left behind at the Koevoet interrogation centre, to toast the good health of our new and interesting friends. Extensively. And being in posession of a laaarge stockpile, the social continied up to the point where the officer and his small squad came to the conclusion that it would be better if they did not return to their camp. So, late afternoon, we went lion hunting, Koevoet style, with sticks.

The Rundu Lions hung out on the western side of town along the river. They were however quite timid and we stood on the embankment overlooking their area and the guys started with a few roars. And they responded. They had names and they pointed out the varios mebers of the family. There was Good cat, Sh*t cat, and a few others. those are the only two I recall. So having roared atthem and having them answer is back, the one guy did something quite amazing. He leopard crawled towards them hissing like a snake. They gave him a wide berth. Then, surrounded by 4 lions, he turned and crawled back.

'Ou boerre trick!' he said with a smile 'You cant run from them, so turn yourself into something they cant identify and act cross with them. If they get curious and want to play, throw sand in their eyes. Mostly though, we carry sticks becuase they know guns.'

Personally though, I stood well back, somewat comforted by the 9mil in my belt, and quite happy to leave the leeuloop to those that knew what they were doing.

[Thabogrobler]

....


And we break the Hilux, so we scale the parts off the Hilux of the OC of Omega base to fix it. (Well, it was our taxes that bought it)

Ok, its dawn, and time to start the day. Cheers Ouens.

Sorry mate, there you just discredited your whole story!

[Racing snake]

Good story Mike. More, more.

[Maplotter]

Thanks.

Ja tjomma, we are getting to the story of how we broke the hilux ... toemaar, jy sal lekker lag.

Let me start off by telling you that the last thing I ever intended to do was smokkel whiskey into Angola, but that was the path that fate led us down.

It started the next morning when Manu walked to the Hilux with us and I took a couple of botties out to give him as a parting present and to ensure a welcome the next time we passed that way. (which we did) As I handed him the bottles, he saw the stocks and he said "Oh so you have plenty of whiskey! here go see this guy, he is a good guy and he will fix you up with some customers." So, despite my protestations he handed me a piece of paper with an address and a name and bade us farewell.

We headed on east into the Caprivi on the chalk white dust road, which in those years was better known as 'Hell Road' for the ambushes and landmines, towards Bagani.

Bagani itself is more of a district than a town, and it is centered around Bagani bridge which crosses the Caprivi from the northern border between Nam and Angola into the Okavango delta. It covers a fair area with Bagani school several clicks in that direction and Bagani police station several clicks in the other direction. And half way between bagani Bridge and Bagani police station is the settlement of Mukwe.

Mukwe is like another version of Rundu Takeaways but different and it was run, in those days by another Portuguese fellow called Pedro. Now, Pedro was to Mukwe what Oom Kallie was to Omitara, and it was not for nothing that he was known locally as 'Don Pedro'. Mukwe was an unusual trading post in that there was segregation, not on racial lines you understand, but on economic lines. It was a big hall, like a hangar, and it was as if someone had drawn this invisible line down the middle. On the left were the blacks and on the right were the whites. The supermarket section on the left was where the locals bought their stocks, and on the right were some chairs and tables where the white farmers and lodge owners and a few others sat and drank beer while black shop assistants did their shopping for them. Down the far side, opposite end to the entrance, was a long refigerated glass fonted and topped shop counter. On the lft were things like milk and cheese and polony and butter and on the right were things like beers, mixers and other refreshments. It was like a bar counter. The shelves behind reflected the goods that suited the needs of the clientelle, atches on the left, and lighters on the right, BB on the left and Camels on the right and so on.

So, having introduced ourselves to Pedro, who had allready be phoned by Mano, we are given the full VIP treatment and a table under the fan, and beers in front of us. We were not there but a few minutes and this Angolan comes up, big eyes and an even bigger smile, beaming from ear to ear.
"HANS HANS!" he shouts.
"ANTONIO!" shouts Hans and they embrace and dance around the tables.
"What are you doing here?" asks Antonio.
"Passing through." says Hans, "What are you doing here?"
"I live over the river! My father is the headman of the village!"
So, they sit down at the table again and Hans tells the story.

Hans works the Hotel, the Sporthotel Alpina in Zavognin just outside Zurich with his mom. he works for six months of the year, and she works for six months of the year. In his six months off he backpacks around the world from here to there. Two months earlier found him in Rio for the Carnival and he ended up working in a hotel as barman. Antonio, also had been in Brazil, and perchance, ended up in the same hotel working as barman with Hans. Hans was from Switzerland and Antonio was from Angola and they left when the carnival ended never expecting to see each other again ... till they bumped into each other in the Mukwe trading post in the Bagani district on the South West African / Angolan border.

Pedro comes over and says "Oh I was going to fix the two of you up, but it seems like you allready know each other. Antonio will take some of your Whiskey."
"You have some Whiskey?" Asks Antonio.
"Sure do!" Says Hans.
Well, I will take a case. I have a mokoro down at the river, so you will come home with me tonight and visit.

So, having made the aranagements, I now find myself smuggling a case of whiskey over the river with my mates in mokoro's by the light of the moon.

Next morning finds us awakening on grass mats in the vilage with giggling children peeping at us from behind trees and the older members of the tribe not knowing what to make of us. Antonio intoduces us to his father, and a complementary bottle of Whiskey and the rest of the case at half price sees a goat getting slaugtered and a fairly festive social breaks out. Drinking whiskey and Kuka beer out of a bush fridge (a wet hole in the ground) We spent the day there and that night saw us once again quietly drifting over the Okavango, the border that seperated two countries that were sort of officially at war with each other ... Not that you would have known it.

Next morning sees us waking up on our sleeping bags back at Don Pedro's were we are presented with a slap up breakfast. Then it is down to business. Pedro not only has the trading post but the bakery as well. And being the only bakery in the region, he is supplying bread to the Caprivi, Bagani, Mukwe, Angola over the river on that side and Shakawe over the border on that side. We negotiate a deal, decide to split the profit 50/50 and he takes the reast of my Whiskey. All of it.

After breakfast, we are sitting in the bakery, hollowing out loaves of bread and filling them with bottles. Lunch time, the bread for Shakawe on the Botswana side is loaded into the van and trailer with a couple of plastic cases noted on the drivers delivery schedule as a special delivery for the missionary station. (basically the only place that the shipment can be dropped off without it getting scaled)

So, we head off for the border. On the South west side, they let the van through and we are confronted by three MP's. So, I ask you, what you need to do to pull the *a* duty of border guard at Bagani. I mean, it is such a backwater posting that they never even bothered to put a border post on the Botswana side. All there is ... is a sign saying ... 'WELCOME TO THE REPUBLIC OF BOTSWANA. WE HOPE YOU WILL FIND OUR OFFICIALS CURTEOUS AND HELPFULL. PLEASE REPORT TO THE POLICE STATION AT SHAKAWE IF YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO DECLARE. PLEASE CLOSE THE GATE BEHIND YOU.'

So, with South West in a state of mild beligerance with Botswana, to the point that they could not even bother to man the gate at the border crossing, and the MP's being the only officialdom, a bad tempered looking sergeant gives us the once over.
"Wie is julle en wat will julle anderkant maak?"
Confronted in a foreign language not dissimilar to dutch, Hans replies
"Medicine sans frontier" (Doctors without borders) waving a swiss passport and a bag of drugs.
"Wie is hulle?"
"Dokters." says the other.
Now usually , hans assures me, this generally lets you sail through a border, but somehow this had the opposite effect. And here it became surreal.
"Klim uit" says the MP. So, we get out in front of the armed MP's and the sergeant starts to pull down his pants. I must admit he had us geussing for a few oments there and none of the things that we could think of were in any way positive. But, in pulling down his pants, he reveals a rather nasty swolen spider bite.
"Can you do something about this?"
"Sure!" says Hans and the hotelier promptly starts to bush doctor the MP right there in the road.

Treatment done, we are back on board the Hilux, through the gate, into Botswana and hot in persuit of the breadvan with our special delivery.

"What did you give him?"
"Oh just some basics, an anti inflamitary, and anti bacterial a pain killer and some uppers to make him feel better about his plight!"
I hoped the MP's didn't hear us laughing as we went barelling down the sandy track.

We found the mission station with our delivery safe and sound quite easily in as much as that the only roads in Shakawe were sand tracks to and from the homes of people with cars and precious few of them at that.

"We are from Drotsky's camp to pick up the delivery of bread." we tell Keith Honey, the Missionary.
"Sure pull in" says Keith, "Are you in a hurry?"
"No" we say, and we settle in at the mission station for a refreshments, which turned into sundowners, which turned into dinner which turned into a sleepover which saw me helping Keith out with his solar panel installation which he used to charge the batteries which powered his little Apple version 1 on which he ran his word processor.

Next morning saw us once again on our way to Drotsky's camp a few clicks south down a very bad road. We dropped off the bread with the pre-arranged people and having been paid, went on our way to spend our ill gotten gains at Jan's river camp on the banks of the delta.

It was as we were barelling along down this track that we encountered a Kalahari detour sign (thorn bishes in the road) and we hung a hard left to follow the detour, and found ourselves plummeting headlong into a donga of substantial dimensions. As we impacted into and bounced through the bottom, I glanced to the right at the bridge over the donga which had a three meter section missing out of the middle of it.

The Hilux did not survive the drop, impact, bounce, and ramp out the other side unscathed and it was a rather sad and sorry and badly wounded Hilux that limped and growledits way into Jan Drotsky's camp. And, the truth be told, is that depite her injuries, she kept rolling and got us there.


.... To be continued.

[OOOOMS]

Lekker....should have given the MP some brook-lax....

[Donkey]

Sounds like a bunch of naughty boys in school if you ask me, interesting read, I love

[Maplotter]

That week spent at Jan and Eileen Drotsky's camp was a fairly memorable one I can tell you. We arived to be greeted by a black groundsman who looked us over suspiciously and directed us on to the social area which contained the office, bar and central fireplace.

At the social area there was a fair mount of excitement and the place was in dissarray. Seems a herd of hippo had strolled through and a mother and her calf found themselves on oppisite sides of the bar. The calf, finding iself alone, let out a wail, and the female hearing the distant distressed call of her calf regarded the bar as the least inconsequential of her obstacles as she made a beeline for her calf.

I leave the state of disorder to your imagination.

Unfortunately, they Drotsky's young son was in the bar, and being fairly nimble went straight up into the rafters and sat op there as the rampage unfolded beneath him. Somhow in this scramble he broke a finger. We arived into the aftermath with things being put back together and first aid being applied.

That evening we made camp.

The next day, we were hanging out in the now re-assembled bar when this load of german tourists arrived and they were distributed between some tents and the houseboat.

Now there was this girl that I was interested in but she seemed to be the focus of another guy, but it was clear that she was not all that interestd. There was this toilet, one of two available, that was down near the camp site. I had been warned that the handle on the inside did not work the mechanism and therefore, I should not pull the door closed when using that loo.

I had gone down to my tent during the night for some or other reason and I was returning when I saw this particular guy going to the loo. Well as i walked past, I relised that this guy had locked himslef in the loo, but as he was not yet finished, he had not discoverd the faulty handle.

Being the helpfull sort of fellow that I am, I opened the door off the latch the he would be able to get out. Only to be told most loudly that the toilet was in use and it would be obvious to anyone that the door was closed indicating this fact. Not wishing to engage in a long debate over the issue, I just quietly colsed the door properly again and walked on.

I told the people next to the fire notto use the bottom loo as the handle was faulty and rather to use the one on the other side. I dont know how long he stayed there but I took up the empty seat next to the young lady and I never saw him again for the rest of the evening.

The next morning sow a whole new outbreak of mahem,shouting, yelling, boats starting up. A croc has made off with one of Eileens goats and was making is way obstream with the bleating viction. Eileen grabbed a boat raced up to the goat, grabbed it and proceeded to have a tug of war with the goat in the river. A contest that she won I might add, and she returned to camp with the goat. With words to the effect of 'Thats OUR supper!" the goat was taken off to be slaughtered.

Later, we left the Germans haning around the camp and the houseboat and headed off south into the Okavanko on a flat bottomed river boat that we had hired for the day along with Jan who was out driver and guide.

We stopped next to a fisherman in a mokoro and bought a fish. Jan cut off a short piece of Papyrus and pushd it in the mouth and out the gill of the dead fish. A few turns an the river later and we came across two Fish Eagles perched on dead trees on opposite sides of the river. Jan ponted out that the one on the left was eating a small croc, about a meter long, while the other was watching.

jan told me to focus my camera on apoint about 10 meters in front of the boat and then threw the fish to the point indicated, where it floated with aid of the piece of Papyrus. The Fish Eagle took off and came in and swooped past right in front of us, picking the fish out of the water.


This technique of luring the eagles in for the tourists of course explains the high prevalence of these type of action shots. The alternative is that you could wait a fair lingth of time for a shot like this.

Late afternoon we returned to become eyewitnesses to, and the cause of a unique spectacle.

Really, it was not deliberate, it is the last thing you expect ... when you are floating back to the dock from your charter, and you say to your mate next to you, 'Hey look, there is a croc.' the last thing in your sphere of consciousness is the 20 fat drunk and happy German tourists partying on the upper deck of a 10 man house boat. So, when one (ja, the one from the toilet) looks over the side and sees said croc and says to his mates 'Hey look, there is a crock.' the last thing any of them think about are the consequences. Hell, not even Jan considered the enormity of the situation and he says, 'Yes, thats the closest I have ever seen any come to the houseboat, usually the noise drives them off' And so, all 20 of them lean over the same side, and the croc is served a massive helping of sauerkraut for dinner as the houseboat flips over. My god it was noisy for a while as a bunch of tourists did an imitation of the Titanic, albeit that it was just a little houseboat that got a glancing blow by a croc, the dramatics were of the same caliber. And it might have been caught on film were all the cameras not at the bottom of the Okavango.

From such are born little one liners that stick, and just repeating the one liner brings everyone down in hysterics.

A portly German tourist was being helped ashore and he was walking over the shallow sand bank with a bandy legged gait. 'Vy are you valking like zat?' 'Because I am being s**tting mein self!' 'But vy did you not wash it off in der river?' 'I did, but I am still being s**tting mein sef!' 'Iss der crock still there?' 'No.' says one, 'I am sure the noise scared him off.' 'Ja' says another, 'It was either that or the overwhelming taste of s**t in the vawter!'

Oh so many many years ago now, but ask them none the less, interludes like that one does not forget. No-one forgets them ever. Maybe, maybe not, but I don’t think one forgets the day your houseboat was capsized. Or the day a petite young woman in a boat fought a croc in the water and won, or the day the hippos stampeded through your bar or the day you leaped so high you broke your fingers. No, I would remember those ‘Drie dik boere met baarde.’ As she called us. I cannot help but think that the entire Drotsky Family would remember us well, and tell them I send the fondest greetings. It was a week of my life that rates up there with very few others that equal.


(Quite right)

To be continued ...

[Mud Dog]

You forgot the "(To be continued ...)" at the end, Mike!

[Maplotter]

Eventually it was time to leave and we had to deal with the task we had been dreading.

We looked at the inside of the engine compartment, and to say that it was bad was a bit of an understatement.

Both engine mountings had sheared off. The manifolds on both sides of the V6 had snapped off and the engine was lying on the front diff. Oh yes, and there was a knock in the engine. A fairly serious knock. But, we were mobile, just, and short of spending a long time in the Okavango delta under a tree, we bushmechanicked a temporary repair with a brach to masically just keep the engine off the diff, and limped on back to the border, where we let ourselves out, and proceeded to the border check point on the South African Side.

To be greeted by a Sergeant an a Corporal that had been sharing the medications we had left behind.

These guys had still not come down off the plak.

But the Sergeants spider bite was history.

You know that brandy ad where the farmer finds a broken down motorist and just takes over his life, taking him back home and looking after him. Well, it was ending the week of his shift, and so he hauls us into their camp

‘Nee man, julle kannie so verder ry nie!’

And so, for lack of anything better to do, we are persuaded to camp at the border check point and we make camp under a tree. Make fire, grill a haunch of a goat that a woman wrestled out of the mouth of a crocodile and haul out some botties.

We are standing around when we see a landie come through the border gate and he comes and stops next to us. And what happens next, no one could dream up.

We are greeted by a big American Negro and his bro from the hoods. (Or should I say from the woods.)

So there we are, Myself, A Swiss substance abuser, A French Camera Man, An American Negro from Harlem, A Botswanan Air Traffic Controller, and three SADF border guards on a plak of note.

So the big Negro says in a southern drawl

‘You guys wouldn’t have any gas would you.’

To this day I cant figure out what is so funny about such a simple request, but it was the funniest thing that we ever heard in our lives. And we all packed out laughing. AT first the Negro and the ATC from Gabs were a bit lost, but figuring out that something was very funny, they soon joined in.

So, it turns out that this Botswana guy was actually quite clever so they sent him to the United states to study as an Air Traffic controller, and he made friends with this American Negro that was a mechanic, who used to fix his broken down car a lot so when he came back to Botswana as a qualified air traffic controller, he invited his mate out to spend a month in Africa as his guest. And they were touring the Okavango and running low on fuel so they decided to head for the only petrol pump in the area which was … at Mukwe.

They had made it this far and they saw that they were not going any further.

So, when they saw us they quite logically asked if we had any gas.

Anyway, we did, and after paying me for the jerry can of fuel, the gassed up and were on their way. The five of us spent the night at the border post. The Negro and the ATC spent the night a Poppa falls just up the road.

Next morning, the sergeant, impressed at how well we had treated him and his mate, and being good mates by now, decided to tow us up to Omega base when their relief came next morning.

They towed us straight on into Omega base work shops and put the ground sheets out and immediately set the tiffies in the workshops to work. They told the other workshop mackies how we had helped them out and what good generally all round party animals we were and soon, we were all the biggest of matesand it did not take long for a bottle of Klippies to make its appearance. A runner was sent for coke and ice and soon it was rather social.

Around back there was a Ford Sierra that had run over a Buffel sand jack which had pretty much scraped the underside clear of exhausts and fuel tank and back axle. The motor was OK, as were the manifolds and the sump. The knock turn out to be a baffle plate in the sump which got bent upwards against the crank when the motor fell down of the front diff.

There were a few bent hydraulic lines and other minors, so the mechanic phones the OC, and tells the OC that they have a gap and they can service his Toyota this afternoon. So a runner is sent for the OC’s Toyota which comes back to the tiffie shop, and we strip what we need out of it.

Then the hiccup. To fit a Ford V6 motor in a Toyota, one has to use the engine mountings of a Ford Capri. (as they angle down and not up letting the motor rest lower in the engine compartment) And the only mountings we have are those of a Sierra V6. So, next up in the scrap yard is a Buffel that hit a land mine, so the tiffies take oxy-acetylene cutters to the side of the buffel and cut and shape two engine mountings out of ‘pantzerstaal’ . And I can tell you for a fact that they could not drill a hole through it so they cut out the bolt holes with a cutting torch.

And so, with the Toyota Hilux rebuilt out of the Toyota Hilux of the OC of Omega base, and the parts of a Ford Sierra V6 that hit a Buffel sand jack, and the Pantzer steel engine moutings cut out of the side of a Buffel armoured vehicle, we were once again mobile, and with a parting gift of R 25.00 for the tiffies (which was the same as a case of whiskey) , Armand Guy, Hans and I headed back to Mukwe where we give Don Pedro his cut of the deal. The 4x4 was perfect but for the fact that it now had stronger engine mountings, something we thought was a good thing, seeing as how much grief the previous weaker ones had caused.

To be continued ... (soon hehe)