But lo and behold it was coming from the Jeep. I had been nursing this ancient jalopy as I was well aware it was past its prime. But now it became increasingly sluggish and after another 10km or so it petered to a stop without a whimper – just outside Borradaile Trust old age home, a few kilometres from Marondera town. Smoke billowed from beneath the bonnet, which was alarmingly hot to my touch – really bad news!
My wife and I were on our way to Eastern Highlands for a fortnight’s holiday and the car was packed with all our belongings and groceries. As I set up the warning triangle some distance behind the Jeep, a woman in a pick-up truck made a u-turn and pulled up behind us. She gave us a five litre bottle of water but I did not want to use it yet, as the engine was way too hot. Introducing herself as Brenda she offered to phone a mechanic friend of hers – Duncan. He told her he would be there shortly and off she went.
We settled ourselves to wait. About 15 minutes later another pick-up pulled off the road. Wow that was quick I thought. Walking towards him I extended my hand and said: “Duncan, thanks for coming so quickly.” ‘My name is Graham,” replied the burly, smiling man, his hair greying at the temples. “Aren’t you Wilf Mbanga?” Confused, I nodded. “I recognised you immediately – although I last saw you when I was about five years old.”
It turned out that his parents had been friends of my mother and father-in-law 40 years previously and he remembered a visit we had paid to them. Our happy reminisces were shortly interrupted by the arrival of a most remarkable contraption on four wheels, complete with skeleton headlights and a shiny klaxon. A small wiry man jumped out wearing typically Zimbabwean famer-type shorty-shorts. Duncan!
It turned out he and Graham were well acquainted and after a short chat both set about examining the now slightly cooled-off Jeep.
After much prodding and poking and lying down underneath it, Duncan shook his head regretfully. “I can’t help you,” he said. “I am a Toyota mechanic and you need a Jeep mechanic.”
I was relieved to hear that the engine had not seized but that the problem appeared to be with the cooling system.
“You need to get it towed,” said Duncan. “To Marondera?” I asked hopefully. “No to Harare (80km away). There’s nobody is this town who can fix a Jeep.” I must have looked a bit crest-fallen because he immediately offered to zoom into town and find me a reliable tow truck.
“There are lots of guys who will cheat you and your car will never arrive at its destination,” he warned. “I need to find you somebody reputable.”
But before he left on this mission I made a complimentary remark about his unusual vehicle and he proceeded to talk me through how he had lovingly crafted it from countless salvaged parts. The chassis was from a Toyota VX. The cab was from an old short wheel-base Landcruiser. The back part came from some little truck. He had made the steering wheel and various other accessories from thick chain. He was in the process of going over the entire thing with a grinder to remove all traces of paint and rust. It gleamed in the afternoon sun – part silver and part rust coloured.
Inside the cab he had installed all the latest bells and whistles, including all the electronics found in a modern car as well as an impressive sound system. Filled with admiration I offered to buy it, but Duncan laughingly told me I couldn’t afford it. Then with a blast on the Klaxon, he was off, leaving us to catch up more with Graham.
He returned about half an hour later, tow truck in tow and proceeded to ensure that the fee was fairly negotiated, the Jeep expertly loaded and dispatched to Harare.
By the time this lengthy process was accomplished it was dusk. I had phoned my niece in Harare and asked her to come and rescue us. But Duncan cautioned me against driving in the dark. “I’ll sort out accommodation for you for tonight,” he said. “I know the people at Borradaile Trust very well and I’m sure they can help you.”
He piled us and our luggage into his vehicle and, true to his word, fixed us up with the staff who had already knocked off and taken us into the bar, aptly named the Departure Lounge, for a welcome drink. There I was amazed to be accosted by yet another middle-aged man who claimed to recognise me from a visit to his parent’s home in Kariba some 40 years previously.
Duncan departed with a friendly wave, refusing any payment, despite the fact that he had spent the entire afternoon at our service.
We were warmly welcomed in the bar by many of the Trust residents enjoying a sundowner. I asked if we could order food from the resident’s dining room. Oh no it’s closed, you have to order well in advance, I was told. “Come home for dinner with us,” one of my fellow drinkers whom I had just met offered. “There are four of us,” I replied. My niece and her friend had finally arrived, having been stuck in awful rush-hour traffic. He glanced questioningly at his wife, who looked slightly alarmed, but immediately both of them insisted that we would be welcome and that they could stretch their supper for two to feed six.
We went off for a shower while they went back to their cottage to prepare. He picked us up at 7.30pm and we enjoyed a most delicious meal and a wonderful evening of stimulating conversation with them. It turned out he was British-
born and had come to Zimbabwe as a young teacher just after Independence. “I met my wife here and forgot to go back home,” he said laughingly.
As he dropped us off at our cottage later that night, I embraced him with considerable emotion. It had been a long day and the richness of comraderie, practical help and accepting warmth from so many strangers stirred my soul. This was how I remembered life as I grew up. Everyone was always kind to strangers – sometimes at great personal cost.
Post published in: Featured