Category Archives: Motorcars_Automobiles

Things are actually fairly easy . . .

. . . if you pull your finger out of your arse. But anal-digital extraction is not really a prominent forte of mine, me being more a procrastinator, thinker, cogitater, planner and delayer sort of person. Circumspect. Not that I’m saying that’s a bad thing, I’m sure it has saved me money at times; I just can’t think of any specific instance when it did.

So the white Ford Ranger pickup clocks 150 000km and is due for a service – full diesel and turbo service and check the nipples or whatever these okes do that know what they’re doing. At 152 000 and 154 000 I’m still serene and only at 156 000km do I start thinking Shit, you’re actually a slack SumBitch, y’know!?

At 158 000 I start making plans and at 160 000 I actually phone Mario and tell him I will be bringing the Ford Ranger bakkie in as soon as I can organise a lift. “Any time” he says in his Italian accent. And then he says “Those Ford Rangers are wonderful vehicles, they’re bullet-proof”, not realising he has just given me a subconscious reason to take my foot off the Urgency, Jeez you’re Slack pedal again. He is a qualified mechanic who apprenticed and specialised on Alfa Romeos back in the day so he knows about cars giving grief and he can diagnose from fifty paces. He knows you have to LURV your car and LISTEN to your car and FEEEL for your car. Right.

Invariably, after a service, he gives me a long and earnest lecture about neglect and how to treat a car. He has serviced my Ford Cortinas and VW Kombis for at least 25yrs and knows I am not what you would call Italian for “meticulous”. As they say: Devi prestare un’attenzione meticolosa alle istruzioni perché le dirò una volta sola. Prestava un’attenzione meticolosa al suo lavoro assicurandosi che fosse sempre perfetto.

So at 163 000km I gear up for REALLY doing something about this and then luckily lil sister Sheila phones: Would I like to join them, they’re going to Ngoye forest in Zululand with a bunch of birders all older than us this weekend and can we take my bakkie?

So I phone Mario and my dilemma about how do I get to work once I’ve dropped off the Ford is solved: Sheila takes me to work then fetches me at 1pm and takes me and Jessie to the dentist. We walk the 3km home.

Now I have to fetch the Ford. Jon is in Jo’burg or Barcelona; Bruce’s Mom just died, he’s organising funeral homes; I don’t want to ask Sheila for a third lift.

WAIT! Jessie’s scooter! There’s a plan. I’m unlicenced and don’t have a helmet but I don my cycling helmet and a jacket and I’m off. Wheee!

Yamaha scooter.jpg
Heather & Bruce on that scooter

Yussis I enjoyed it! It started to rain and those wheels are small but I zoomed off, 150cc’s whining. I diced – and beat – every car at all the lights. Twenty kilometres later I was there and asked Mario to help me load the Yamaha in the back of the Ranger. We huffed and puffed and we had to call his son Andreas to help, but we squeezed it in lying on its side with the handle bars hanging over the tailgate. I was about to clip Sambucca’s dog leash on the brakes to stop it from falling out when Mario said “The petrol is leaking out.” So we dragged it back out and abandoned it in his garage.

I have my bakkie back. The noise wasn’t a hole in the exhaust, the fan belts were shot; the seat belt light was just a loose wire to an airbag; the brake light was low brake fluid; I’d imagined the discs paper-thin, so I had stopped braking for the last few weeks; Two minutes after I got there Mario poured brake fluid into a reservoir and the light went off!

Nothing was as bad as I’d imagined. So he fixed everything and did the 150 000km service 13 000km late all for R2200. Things are actually fairly easy if you pull your finger out of your arse.

~~oo0oo~~

If you check the Italian words “attenzione meticolosa; volta sola; and perfetto” – you will find this translation: Wot I’m Not.

Low Flying in Malawi

We flew in on our first trip to Malawi in 1990. Just me and Aitch. At Lilongwe airport we hired a car from the brochures on the desk, not from the kiosks in the airport. Well, the man on the phone said they didn’t have any presence at the airport to save money, but they were nearby, they’d be there in a jiffy. And they were cheap. I like that.

The airport emptied till it was just us, so we took our bags to the entrance and sat in the shade waiting. There was no-one there but a bored youth sitting in a dark blue Honda with sagging suspension, but we were chilled and the airport garden needed birding. Eventually I went back to the desk to phone the man. He was amazed: “My driver should have been there long ago!”

‘Twas him. ‘Twas our car: The dark blue Honda with sagging suspension. “No, no,” we laughed, “There must be a better car than this!” – thinking of the rough roads we’d be traversing. “Come back to the office and you can choose another car,” said the friendly man. So we did. The office was his house, and we inspected his fleet. Well, bless him, of course it was his best car, he’s good people; so off we headed to Kasungu National Park in a dark blue Honda Civic with Formula 1 ground clearance. We were on safari, and this was our jeep.

In the park we drove with one wheel on the middle bump and one on the left edge of the road. On the open road we drove slowly and avoided anything above deck.

While I was unpacking to occupy our bungalow I froze: a serval! Wonderful! We always love seeing the smaller wildlife. I tried to signal to Aitch as the long-legged cat walked out of the long grass into the clearing. I didn’t want to scare it, so I whistled low and urgent. Aitch came out, and we watched as it came closer and closer.

And closer. And closer till it rubbed itself against my leg! It was the camp pet, it had been raised by the rangers.

We headed further north – to Vwaza Marsh, and then up high to Nyika Plateau, 10 000ft above sea level; then south again to Nkhata Bay, beautiful Lake Malawi and warmer weather. The car went like a dream at twenty km/h and even sometimes at thirty km/h.

– smooth highway! –

South of Nkhata Bay we suddenly came on a stretch of smooth road! I crept the needle up to forty km/h. Then fifty and eventually sixty! Wheee! “Careful, Koos,” admonished my Aitch, clinging white-knuckled to the dashboard (kidding! sort of). Then we came up to the big yellow grader that had smoothed our path. It moved aside and we went past with a wave to the friendly driver. The road condition was now back to interesting, so I slowed down to forty. “Slow down, Koos,” admonished my Aitch. We’d been doing thirty, so this still felt fast to her and I knew she was right, but I had tasted speed . .

WHUMP! We hit a brick and I knew immediately Fuckit Mrs Tuckit that we’d be getting to know this remote stretch of Malawi. I parked on a low level bridge and leaned out to peer under the car: Oil pouring out of the sump. Do you have any soap? I asked Aitch. Here, she said shoving a bottle of liquid soap into my hand. Um, no, a bar of soap. Ever resourceful, she whipped out a fat green stick of Tabard mozzi repellent. Perfect, I said and shoved it in the hole. It went into the sump without touching sides! OK, we were going to be here for a while . .

– uh oh –
– now the Black-winged Red Bishop – Euplectes hordeaceus – thanks wikipedia –

To break the tension I took my binocs and went for a walk and straight away things got better. “Come look!” I called Aitch “A lifer!” A Fire-Crowned Bishop flitted around in the reeds of the stream we were parked above. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘Don’t tell me that’s why you stopped here?’ Grinning, she made us a snack on the bootlid and we waited. Before too long someone came by. On foot. Two schoolboys who said, Not to worry, we know a mechanic in a nearby village. He will fix it. Great! I said, Would you ask him to help us, please? thinking, Actually guys, there’s no sign of a ‘nearby village.’

An hour later, a car zoomed by without stopping. Unusual for Malawi. Another hour later and a Land Rover stopped, the driver got out and shook his head sadly. He couldn’t help us, he said, as he was in a government vehicle. As he drove off we saw his female passenger appearing to give him a thousand words. He stopped and walked back with a 5l oil can in his hand. “I can’t sell you this oil because it’s guvmint oil, but I am going to give you this oil,” he said. Great, we accepted it with alacrity. It was half full. It was a start.

Another hour or so and three figures approached us on foot, one with a greasy green overall and a red metal toolbox on his shoulder. It was our mechanic and our schoolboys. They had come through!

– my mechanic watches as I tap tap – check tool detail on left –

Soon he had the sump cover off and I started tapping the hole closed using a shifty and a spanner. As I tapped I asked if anyone – perchance – had a bar of soap. Nope. No-one. Holding up the cover to the sun I tapped that malleable metal until not even a glint of sun shone through. I had closed the hole. As we started to replace it, I muttered “I’d give twenty kwacha for some soap,” whereupon one of the guys whipped out a sliver of red Lifebuoy soap from his pocket.

– our rescuers –

Boy! Did the others turn on him! “How can you be so unkind to our guests?” was the accusation and they refused to let me pay him more than four kwacha for his soap, despite my assuring them that it was worth twenty to me. As we prepared to depart after pouring in the guvmint oil, we gave them each a cold can from our hebcooler, paid the mechanic his modest dues (he didn’t charge traveling costs) and gave the schoolboys and the mechanic each a cap. I had two spare caps and Aitch had one. A pink one.

1500km later we handed the car back and I told the man at the airport: “Please check the sump. Its leaking oil.” It wasn’t, but I wanted him to check it.

~~oo0oo~~

More pictures of our journey from Aitch’s album:

– road near Rumphi –
– up on Nyika plateau – 8000ft above sea level –
– Nyika Plateau very special rolling grasslands –
– sure, sometimes we did save money – I like that! –
– and sometimes we splashed out –

~~~oo0oo~~~

The whole album, as I have now discarded the hard copy:

~~oo0oo~~

Good Advice in Kenya

Aitch and I went to Mombasa in 1998 and checked in at a hotel on Diani beach. The next day I got a lift into town and walked the crowded streets of Mombasa looking for a cheap hired car. Mombasa is quite a place:

Mombasa downtown

I did my sums. I’m meticulous. Not.

Kenya car hire quotes
– car hire – lots of choice –

While I was on safari hunting hired cars, Aitch chilled on the uncrowded beach and pooldeck, no doubt quaffing ginless gin&tonics. She used to do that, you know! Tonic & bitters. Ginless! I know! You’re right; Search me; Where’s the medicinal value? The personality enhancing factor, PEF? Still, she loved it.

Diani Beach Hotel

After careful stalking, keeping downwind of my prey and pinpoint aiming, my lone hunting expedition was successful; I found a lil Suzuki jeep. Marvelous. I could turn round from the drivers seat and touch the back window! Almost. I knew they were good cos my chairman Allister told me, and he knows things, him being a Suzuki driver himself. Also JonDinDin once drowned his in the Tugela estuary, pulled it out and it still worked. We had wheels!

scan0001

Good Birding Advice: Back at the hotel I went for a walk, leather hat on my head, binoculars round my neck. An old man came cranking along slowly on a bicycle, swung his right leg high up over the saddle and dismounted next to me.

‘Ah!’ he said,‘I can see you are English.’ I didn’t contradict him. ‘You are looking for buds,’ he said, also in a way that made me not argue. ‘There are no buds here,’ he said emphatically. ‘If you want to see buds you must go to the west, to the Impenetrable Forest. There are many buds there.’ After I thanked him for this sage advice he put his left foot on the pedal, gave a push and, swinging his right leg high over the saddle, wobbled off. After a few yards he had a thought, slowed, swung off in the same elaborate dismount and came back to me: ‘But in this hotel over here you can see some peacocks in the garden,’ he informed me re-assuringly.

‘Ah, thank you sir. Thanks very much,’ I said, wishing him well and thinking of Kenya’s 1100 species of birds – eleven percent of the world’s total. The USA has about 900, and the UK about 600. He was a character a bit like this:

Kenya man on bicycle
– by Michael Allard it says – More about him –

Good Traveling Advice: We also got pessimistic advice on the roads. We were on our way to Tsavo National Park the next day and we wanted to avoid the main road to Nairobi. We’d heard it was crowded with trucks and buses and we’d rather avoid that, if at all possible. On our Globetrotter map I found a little road south-west of the main road – an alternative route via Kwale, Kinango and Samburu.

‘No you can’t; No, not at all; There’s no way,’ says everyone. Even the barman! Even after I said, And Have One Yourself! he still said no. ‘The bridge has been washed away by cyclone Demoina,’ they all said. This was a bit weird, as Demoina had been in 1984, fourteen years earlier, and had mostly hit Madagascar, then Mocambique, then KwaZuluNatal, well south of Kenya.

Usually I can eventually find ONE person to say ‘Don’t listen to them, the road is FINE,’ but this time I was stymied. No-one would say ‘Yes!’  nor even ‘Maybe.’

SO: We headed off along the road toward Kwale anyway. ‘Tis easier to seek forgiveness than permission, we thought. Aitch, what a trooper, was right behind me in adventurousness and right beside me in Suzukiness. ‘We’ll see new places,’ was all she said. She knows me.

As we neared Kwale a minibus taxi approaching from the other direction did a strange thing: They actually flagged us down to tell us ‘Stop! You can’t go this way! The bridge is gone, Demoina washed it away!’ We nodded, acted surprised, looked grateful, agreed, and thanked them kindly; then we kept going.

And they were right: The bridge over the river between Kwale and Kinango had indeed washed away. But there were recent tyre tracks down to the river which we followed. Below and just upstream of the iron wreckage of the bridge we stuck the Suzuki in 4X4 and crossed  the low river. Then we stopped for a break, parking our mini-4X4 under a beautiful shady tree on the river bank:

–  –

And we were right: Besides being devoid of traffic, the road surface was mostly good, sometimes great:

But the road was fine after all. In a Suzuki, that is . . .
But the road was fine – in a Suzuki
Friendly Kenyans
In places like a smooth highway - only better
– smooth highway –

Then the honeymoon ended: We ran out of detour and got back onto the main, ‘tarred’ Mombasa-Nairobi road at Samburu: Aargh! Every so often a blob of tar would threaten to cause damage. Huge holes had the traffic all weaving from side to side so trucks seem to be coming straight at you, but it’s actually quite safe, despite Aitch occasionally putting her feet up against the windscreen and yelling at me that there was an oncoming truck. Like I couldn’t see it. Its rather like slow-motion ballet. Most cars and all trucks went slowly, the only vehicles ‘speeding’ – probably up to 60km/h – were big passenger buses with their much better – softer, longer travel – suspension.

Mombasa - Nairobi Highway - THIS is why we sought the Road Less Travelled!

Years later, we can find the place where the bridge had washed away on online maps. Here’s the new bridge and new road on the right, with the old road just left of it, and just left of that, the drift we crossed (just left of the yellow arrow) and that beautiful tree in the top picture (red arrow) that we rested under. All the long red mud scar is new road- wasn’t there back then. The old road shows as a thinner, lighter line.

– thanks Tracks4Africa –

Then we got to Tsavo! I’d wanted to visit Tsavo since I was ten years old, and read books by Bernhard Grzimek. Armand Denis and others! Well, here I was, thirty years later! Yavuyavu! Fahari!

~~oo0oo~~

Yavuyavu! Fahari! – Joy, happiness, yes!

Michael J Allard, the witty, talented painter of the wonderful old man on his bicycle,  lived in Zim on a farm, and in Ireland. He died in 2021.

– a book of his delightful paintings –

Redfoot, the 1979 Land Rover

Aitch knew an old doctor with a fading practice in PMB who “did up” Land Rovers on the side. That got me thinking . . .

To my amazement my partners Lello, Yoell & Stoute were NOT HUGELY ENTHUSIASTIC as I twisted their arms to go in as equal shareholders! Even when I told them that, besides the good doctor, it had only one previous owner.

But eventually they saw the light and agreed, good partners that they are, and we became the proud consortium owners of a handpainted, 1979, hole-in-the-floor, manual, 4X4, long wheelbase, get-out-and-manually-lock-the-diff, Series III station wagon, 5-door, Land Rover. White. Like whitewash white, which turned out to be appropriate.*

It was fitted with a new-eish Ford Essex V6 three litre engine on new birdshit-welded mountings and painted white with an old brush. The wheel rims were painted red with the same brush, from which its name Redfoot. Did I mention handpainted with an old brush? A matt white, so no glare. You could drive it without sunglasses as long as you weren’t driving east in the morning or west in the arvie.

Well, we ended up putting two more engines into ole Redfoot, and it went up Sani once.

It also went to Ladysmith once on the tar N3 carriageway; Used by Prem as 8-seater passenger transport wagon; Yoell used it once and never again; Soutar used it once or twice and pronounced it ‘very good’ – he owned an even older white Landie; We took the dogs to the beach in it. Some of these people were complainers who insisted on mentioning the big hole in the floor, seeing the road rushing beneath, and the loud roar. Fussy lot. I don’t think Lello and Stoute got any benefit, but they did share in the loss.

Once I grew weary of replacing engines, and worked out my consumption in miles-per-engine, I advertised it for sale and there was a huge and busy and clamorous non-rush. Then friend Andre vd Merwe from PE thought he’d buy it as he knows a bargain when he sees OK, hears about one, but unfortunately he brought his level-headed and intelligent wife Sue along to the test drive. Sue realised something wasn’t all that new Bentley-like – I don’t know HOW – and ordered the man to turn around NOW after only a few km’s and stated in no uncertain terms that he would buy it “Over Her Deceased Corpse!” Unfortunately Andre, not being an automotive engineer, didn’t have all Redfoot’s great advantages and features at the tip of his tongue, so he meekly made like a husband and my celebrations were rudely interrupted when they drove back down my River Drive driveway where I had just gleefully waved them goodbye not half an hour earlier.

Once a Canadian optometrist used Redfoot to get to a clinic where he did a volunteer stint in the Valley of 1000 Hills in KwaZulu Natal. He brought it back smoking. Being Canadian he didn’t really get the ‘stick shift’ thing, nor the ‘clutch’ thing. That was one of the new engines. Louis du Plessis the Kingfisher Canoe Club mechanic said, “He pushed the connecting rod and the big end right through the block.” I nodded gravely as though I knew wherof he spoke.

Spent a total of R25 000 on it in all and sold it for R5 000 hot cash – with relief! To another Sue’s boyfriend – not husband, see? – who was running contraband to lodges in Mocambique from a boat and needed a 4X4 to . . I didn’t ask. He didn’t come back. I didn’t ask.

Not a runaway success story was Redfoot, but I think my partners exaggerate when they say I promised them an ‘investment opportunity’!

~~oo0oo~~

*The whitewash: Turns out the ‘one previous owner’ was the KwaZulu bantustan homeland Police Force!

~~oo0oo~~

Casa Blanca Roadhouse, Joburg

As students 1974-1977 we would frequent the Casa Blanca roadhouse at the foot of Nugget Hill below Hillbrow when the pocket money arrived from home. Squeezed into Joz’s green VW Beetle or Steve’s beige Apache or Bobby’s white Mini Cooper S or Glen’s green Toyota, we’d ask the old Elvis-looking guy with a cap, flip-up sunglasses and whispy whiskers for a burger n chips plus a coke; Or a cheeseburger chips n coke 70c, or – as Steve Reed reminded me – “if we were flush, the Dagwood with everything including the runny fried egg. Sheer luxury. Messy, but worth it!”

I don’t have a pic of the Casa Blanca, but here’s the Doll House in Highlands North and the Casbah in Alberton so long:

Every so often you’d be asked “Move forward” and you’d inch forward to make room for new arrivals behind you, till you reached the “finishing line” where you handed back the tray the Elvis look-alike waitron had clipped to your half-rolled-up window and drove off under the big sign on the wall: QUIET. HOSPITAL.

Many years later (OK, twenty six years later!) work took me back to Jozi and I had time to kill in my hired car so I drove around Doories and Yeoville and Hillbrow. Around lunchtime I pulled in to the Casa Blanca and I SWEAR there was the exact same oke who had served us twenty six years earlier, with his SAME cap, his SAME flip-up shades and his SAME whispy whiskers! Astonishing!

I told him, Cheeseburger chips n coke and how long have you been here?

“Thirty six years,” he said “but I’m just filling in now.”

Charged me 70c. Plus twenty six years-worth of inflation.

~~oo0oo~~

We have not been able to reach you

On 2013/02/20 12:34 PM, carshop wrote:

Dear Thomas,

We have been unable to contact you since your vehicle enquiry from CMH Land Rover Silver Lakes. Please contact Org R on 012 8_9 5__0 from CMH Land Rover Silver Lakes to discuss your vehicle enquiry. Feel free to contact our support centre by email carshop@cmh.co.za or call us on 0861 carshop should you experience any difficulties.

Sincerely,

~~oo0oo~~

Hi there

I’m sorry!
Thomas is 11yrs old and was on a “wishing” spree without my knowledge!
Please cancel this request.
Thanks a lot
Pete

~~oo0oo~~

Hi Pete,

Thank you for your response, I’ll cancel your – or shall I say Thomas’s – request with the dealer.

Glad the boy has good taste in cars.

Keep well.

Kind Regards

Vicki
Carshop Team Leader
————————–

From: Pete
Sent: Wednesday, February 20, 2013 2:15 PM
To: carshop
Subject: Re: We have not been able to reach you

~~~oo0oo~~~

Brauer: Fully understandable. Having been forgotten to be picked up at school so often by his dad he deserves his own wheels and shouldn’t be embarrassed in front of his peers by arriving in a skadonk;

Reed: Would Evoque some ire no doubt! Hope it was the Diesel Turbo 6 speed manual. (Probably the automatic, though, so he could drive it).

Stoute: Where’s their sense of humour? Didn’t even offer him a test drive!

~~~oo0oo~~~

skadonk – Land Rover

My White Ford Ranger 3-litre Diesel! It’s gone!

Got back from the Brauers’ palatial new home in the ritzy suburb of Gramadoelas in Tshwane – that ancient seat of my forebears the Tshwanepoels (we have landclaim rights there) – landed at Kinshasa Airport and set off to my car. OK, bakkie. It’s waiting for me in 1A in the parking garage proper. (King Shaka airport, really).
Usually I park under shade cloth, but I thought what the hell, I was a bit late so I took a shorter route; the undercover is closer to the boarding gates.

Okaaay, I’m sure it’s here. I’ll check again.

Up and down all the rows, including the ones I knew I wasn’t in. Nothing.
Try level 0, one down (even though I KNOW I was in 1A, I memorised it and said to myself “Remember 1A: You can’t get better than that: 1st class and an ‘A’ result”). Nope. Try level 2, one up. Nope.

So eventually I had to go to security. To report my car missing, ask where the SAPS was to report the theft, open up a ‘missing car case’ and ask if they had CCTV cameras. Already I was imagining it on a lowbed trailer on its way to – I dunno, Monaco? Paris? where bakkies like mine are highly desired.

‘No’, said the perky 21yr old at the parking office with a smile, ‘You can’t have lost your car, where did you leave it?’
‘1A’ I said, my spirits lifting as she said it with such absolute certainty! I thought ‘They don’t have cars stolen here. I can see that just by her demeanour!’

‘Try -1A’ she said. “MINUS ONE AY” is how it sounded.

‘There’s a -1A?’ I asked, ‘Yes’ she burbled brightly, ‘Two levels down from 1A’.

There it was.

~~oo0oo~~

I Sold My Kombi Roofrack

Didn’t think I ever would, but I have the trailer now.

“Tell me a story and get a discount” I said in my ad on gumtree.co.za

“I’m going hunting in Namibia said the man in Cape Town – and it’s going to cost me courier fees.”

He got R1000 off! Paid only R4000 – Whattabargain!

Small pic for gumtree ad (184kb)

Especially as I was selling memories:

On the roofrack. Camping is FUN, Mum!

Cape Vidal

SibayaMabibi Apr 2003 (3)

Lake Sibaya

Midmar (2)

Midmar Dam

MalawiWithKids Kombi Baobab-001

Malawi

Aitch always had diversions - here it's big chalk to decorate the spare wheels

Zambia

Die Donkie is n Wonderlike Ding

I was going too fast, but we were late and I could see miles ahead along the sweeping roads on the hillsides of Lesotho. A speck of dust would show up then disappear as we rounded a hill, then reappear later a bit nearer, but still far away. Eventually a car would materialise, turn into a white bakkie and sweep past in a cloud of dust.

We were hastening to get to Sani Top after entering Lesotho near Ficksburg, and zooming over Khatse Dam after waiting a while for the brakes to cool so they’d work again after too much braking for sight-seeing down the steep decline to the dam.

Little Jessie and Tom are strapped in the back of the VW kombi, me and Aitch in front. The Dizzis were waiting for us and Aitch hates keeping anyone waiting and especially the Dizzis, so I was putting foot, it’s true.

Dusk was approaching as I rounded one more bend. My eyes widened and the donkey’s eyes widened much more. Huge, in fact as he stared at his impending doom. The look in his eyes was quite fatalistic, and he was rooted to the spot, massive bundle of sticks and bushes loaded on his back and sticking out more than his body width on both sides. On the left a high bank, on the right a cliff plummeting down to the river valley far below. Swerving was out of the question, as was hard braking, so I manual-ABS’d, slowing down as much as I could without endangering us.

As we hit the poor ass I probably closed my eyes. WHACK! A sickening bang. Dead, I’m sure. Kombi messed up. I stopped and hopped out thinking: You don’t stop and get out. For safety you keep moving. Like hell you do. A glance at the kombi showrd no sign of anything! That was puzzling but i had no time to think about it.

.

I walked into a wall of cussing and swearing and remonstrating in high seSotho. What the hell did I think I was doing and Who the hell was going to pay and Where the hell was I headed in such a hurry and How the hell was he going to . . . I hardly heard him. I was staring past him at the donkey walking away minus its load, seemingly none the worse for wear! I was so relieved I actually giggled and had to bite my lip.

I immediately launched into a sincere and abject apology oft-repeated and completely ignored. I apologised for speeding, endangering, carelessness, being younger than him, and for breathing. I was sorry that he’d have to catch his donkey and I regretted that he’d have to do all the loading all over again. I was getting nowhere and the tirade was warming up and getting more creative. I saw I wasn’t getting through, so I returned to the kombi and fetched R200 and pressed it into my fully-justified tormentor’s hand.

It was like switching off a radio. He was COMPLETELY satisfied and what were we talking about a minute ago again? A last apology and off we went, just more slowly. We still had a way to go. Phew!

– near Sani Top in earlier days –

There was a sequel the next morning as we headed back into Lesotho on the same road. There was my man again, so I gave him a cheery wave. He was with a mate and he pointed at us jabbering away, grinning excitedly. We had fun imagining what he was saying. All complimentary, we agreed.

~~oo0oo~~

Fokkop Deluxe

Greg phones: Hey, my son Steve is down from doing research near Kruger Park, can you test his eyes? No prob.

We test, I order specs. Steve is leaving tomorrow early, so I arrange to fetch the specs at the lab and connect with Greg that evening.

I leave work early.

Holy shit! My battery is flat. Flatter than flat. Left the lights on. My big china carguard Dronk Jan Kleynhans from Harrismith “didn’t notice they were on”. He looks after a grand total of about six cars on the roof of our centre, and sits right behind mine. Was snoring his fukken head off I spose!

I check with the BP garage attached to the shopping centre: Can’t help. I check with Battery Centre: Can’t help. I phone the AA. Coming.

I phone the lab: I’ll be late. “No problem, my uncle goes to the funeral parlour downstairs and sits there till 7pm“. Maybe drinking blue top till he feels he can face the wife? “I’ll leave them with him”.

The guardian angel from AA arrives – Automobile Association, altho’ I could have used the other one too. He needs two batteries to kickstart the diesel, then “Hey, you test eyes? I got troublems with my bifocal, no good can you help?“

Get to the lab, but don’t want to switch off, and even I can’t leave the key in the ignition with the engine running while I go in. Not that I wouldn’t, but I feel that would be just TOO embarrassing to explain if the bakkie got whipped. YOU DID WHAT? WHERE? UMHLATUZANA? YOU DOOS!

While I juggle nearer to the funeral parlour door, an ou shuffles up “Buy some DVD’s very good DVD’s. They play, I won’ sell you DVD’s that don’ play, I won’ lie to you“. No thanks. “Hey Larney I’m telling you they good DVD’s! Check: New movies Bollywood this Bollywood that, even white ous movie, one I got“.

No I don’t want, really. He drops the sales pitch and asks “Who you looking for larney?” Terence’s uncle in the funeral parlour. “I know that hou, I’ll go and tell him” Hey thanks.

Comes back with a package with Pete Swanepoel written on it. Thanks a ton. I’m off.

I phone Greg: He says, Come to Mo’s Noodles, I’ll buy you supper. Great idea. I arrange Cecelia to look after the brats.

Halfway thru supper I realise I have forgotten the whole reason for the meeting: Left the specs at home in my briefcase out of which I had grabbed my wallet! FUCK! Turns out it’s no problem, Steve is no longer leaving early, he’s leaving after lunch. Fine.

Next morning I check the specs. A woman’s plastic frame with +2,00’s. Steve’s is a men’s metal frame with +0,75’s. Thank goodness I had forgotten them and didn’t haul them out in the restaurant!

Steve’s were now at work, having taken the usual delivery instead of this flurried, nonsensical ‘special delivery’.

I fetch them and FINALLY deliver them to Greg before lunchtime.

Yussis! WHAT a fokkop. Almost military in its fokkopedness.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Four Wild Toppies on the Old Coast

Secret Diary of a trip down mammary lane.

It wasn’t that we were actually, y’know, OLD, but . . . well, we needed a break and a brief flashback to our glory days, when the chicks used to hurl themselves at us. Well, that one. In the harbour, remember?

So we piled into a kombi and headed off to the Wild Coast, looking for That Famous Stuff they sell down there, and hoping to rendezvous with the Swedish Hockey team. OK, the Swedish Old Girls Hockey Team, who were rumoured to be doing pre-season training in Lusikisiki (or, as we called it after crawling out of The Shy Stallion shebeen) Lo-squeaky-squeaky.

As we neared the coast there was a lo-ong downhill ahead of us and I stopped the kombi and got onto Abbers’ mountain bike and whizzed down with glee. As I reached terminal velocity I did think Uh-Oh! as I felt the effects of the Black Label kicking in. At the bottom I coasted to a halt. I don’t do uphills.

It was the Black Label by the quart and sweet wine that did it, I suppose, but when we got to the actual coast where the waves break against the rugged shore, we were looking for some action. We needed a break from all the Sixties music we’d been playing, broken only by one awful interlude when Bruce snuck an Amy Winehouse CD into the player! So we lay down and had a snooze.

But Abbers had brought that borrowed mountain bike, and we no longer wondered why. Seems he wanted to get away from the competition and meet up with a longtime connection he had met when salvaging the good ship BBC China which foundered off Grosvenor back when he was but a boy in his forties. Off he went on his own, heading vaguely south, trapping that fiets stukkend.


– Check carefully: No hockey girls –

When he got back much later there was a distinct whiff of some smoky vegetation about him and the Msikaba mosquitoes avoided him like the plague. We pumped him for information, but all we got was a mumbled “Loose-titty-titty” and the fact that he had not found the now-overdue Swedish Old Girls Hockey Team, but that when we did he dabzed wrestling with the goalie.

Abbers’ head did clear after a few days and he set off fishing so as to be able to answer spouse Les reasonably honestly, give or take; but the fish were having none of it. You could actually see them giving his bait a wide berth and wrinkling up their nostrils.

wikipedia: MV BBC China was a 5,548 GT general cargo vessel. In October 2003 the ship was diverted to Italy while carrying gas centrifuges for uranium enrichment to Libya. In October 2004 it ran aground near Port Grosvenor, where it was declared a total loss and subsequently demolished with explosives. – BY ABBERS! See? This is true.

~~oo0oo~~

trapping that fiets stukkend – pedaling vigorously

~~oo0oo~~

Meanwhile, unbeknown to us . . . a few rivers further north, the Swedish ladies K4 paddling team was training on the Umtamvuna:

swedish rowing team

This is true. OK, they might not have been there that same weekend but they did go there! And they were Swedish. And gorgeous.

Msikaba Boys Weekend

Taking pictures was hard cos there was beer . . .

~~oo0oo~~

Hijack Anniversary

15 August 2012 – sms from Belinda:

Hey Pete! I stand to be corrected, but it was 10 or 11 years ago tonight we met some uninvited visitors at your house after a St Lizzie’s parents meeting! Just a thought I had.

(I was taken off from our home by five armed guys in Belinda’s VW Polo that night, and dropped off on the M19 onramp onto the N2 South. A truck driver stopped and took me to a garage. Cops then fetched me and took me home. Her car was recovered the next day. Belinda and the Griffiths had come for coffee after a pre-school parents gathering. I was carrying little Em to Belinda’s car when I was jumped).

Thy Ox and My Ass

On a boys getaway weekend to Manteku on the WildCoast my kombi makes it easily down to Drifters’ camp, though I do think Uh! Oh! as we drive down, Might be interesting getting out!

Uh Oh!

Five glorious days later we pack up and head out. But it has rained and the hill is too much for the kombi. What now? We’re the only vehicle in miles and the okes who should push are way too old for the job. They sit in my fine vehicle looking at me, sipping beer and asking, So what are YOU going to do?

Luckily, our Drifters camp manager is helpful. “No problem,” he says, “I’ll get some oxen.”

Oh, the shame! My ‘friends’ roar with laughter and start preparing. To lighten the kombi? To attach the tow rope? To clear big rocks away? No. None of the above. To take pictures!

A ‘helpful’ comrade filled with empathy!
– after a false start, where the oxen made a beeline for the river, we’re now aimed right . . uphill –

To this day I am reminded of this by these helpful ‘friends’. If I mention any car trouble they helpfully tell me: “Check for ox shit in the axles.”

At the top, it’s payment time: Thanks for your time, your trained oxen and your skill!

I told the helpful owner, Verily, Thy ox saved My ass.

~~oo0oo~~

Tom’s Next Car

On the way to school this morning he gave me a lecture on the need for us to get a BMW.
I said “Ain’t gonna happen” so he tried for an Audi.
I said “Our kombi is our holiday-on-wheels”. He said it’s like being dropped off in a taxi.

What he really wants is a Jaguar or a Ferrari. Maybe like this one? Sold for R54m this week.

Ferrari R54m

“And where would we fit Jess, Tom?” He thought that was a novel idea, worrying about such trivialities when we were talking serious matters.

Anyway, R54m – pshaw!
This one is R299m:
Ferrari 1962 GTO 250

A classic Ferrari first built for Sir Stirling Moss has sold for a world record £22.7-million (R299-million), making it the most expensive car in the world.

The 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO

Expecting Automation

Aitch is in Bloemfontein in a new rental Toyota Yaris. She’s working. She flew up from Durban so is not driving the company BMW 3-series she’s used to.

Feeling peckish, she drives to a take-away, but she can’t find the button for the window, so has to open the door to order and receive her double cheese burger (while the cat’s away the cat will play!)

Later she searches again. Where on earth have they hidden the window button? Not on the door, not on the centre console, not on the dash. Next stop is a hospital and there’s a boom, so she stops beforehand and conducts a thorough search. Doesn’t want to be caught at the boom with cars hooting behind her.

Oh! Here it is. A round knob attached to a handle and you have to actually go round ‘n round and wind the thing MANUALLY! Using your whole arm!

Who would have thought?! Whatever will they think of next?

~~oo0oo~~

The Old Millenium Kombi

The old kombi is still fine. Sure it ‘s been to the moon – but it hasn’t come back yet. And anyway I just put new tyres onnit. I agree, the rust. And the grating into third gear. So you noticed the whine in second? Mario says it’s not critical, it could last a few more months. It’s not a diff whine, as it’s only in second. A diff whine would be constant – like you buggers about me buying a new car.

Yes, my 4yr-old, I know it’s rusty. And yes, my 8yr-old, I know it’s not cool. Actually, I don’t know that. I think kombis will always be cool to my generation. No?

2003Apr kombi tom dizzi gayle jess trish 2.jpg

I disconnected the aircon because the compressor is tired. The heater works fine, though. It does sukkel a bit to tow the trailer, that’s true. But again: not downhill. The seats are a little saggy but that’s cos they get stood on a lot, being a kombi.

Don’t forget that it has three batteries and two plug points. Not many cars have that. It would be easy to change the “headlamp with the high tide”. The hole in it allows rainwater in, but it’s below the element so it still shines (OK, glows). After a few hot dry days it drops to low tide and gets brighter.

The dings are minor: One on the rear corner, a scratch down the side (shopping trolley?) and seven little starbursts in the windscreen – Wait!

Maybe insurance will cough for a new windscreen? Hey! then it would be like new again! That’s what I’ll do.

=======ooo000ooo=======

Taylor wrote:

It’s a touching tale – a heroic old kombi that thinks it’s a 4×4, and a driver who wears plus fours when he ambles about the golf course. But hey, no pressure – it’s a collector’s piece, and any minnit now it’ll start appreciating, so vasbyt and let the disapprovement wash over you like a ducks water off your back.

Remember, he who laffs last didn’t geddit quickly enough.

=======ooo000ooo=======

In kombi lovers’ minds kombis are forever so: