REGULAR readers of this column will know I am something of a Land Rover slut. Not just any Land Rover, not the ubiquitous Range Rovers, Discoveries or Freelanders that bear the Land Rover badge, but the real Landies, the ones that these days are badged as Defenders.
We have owned four “real” Land Rovers over the years, a Series II, a Series IIA, a Series III, and now, a venerable 1991 Land Rover 110 with a 3.5litre V8 engine that has taken us, and our kids, all over southern Africa on amazing adventures.
So I was intrigued when I got a press release this week from Land Rover headed “An African Defender For Africa.”
In fulsome terms, it said that “Land Rover’s most iconic model has become even more appropriate for the great African outdoors thanks to the introduction of the Defender Africa Edition” … blah blah blah blah and then the kicker: “Interior highlights are… red leather piping, red contrast stitching and a unique ‘Africa’ map tag… the vehicles’ base price is equally tantalising: the Land Rover Defender Africa Edition 110 sells for R562 000.”
Yikes. For that price, I could buy a fleet of 14 second hand 110 V8s that collectively would probably last for 14 million kilometres of African travel.
But my fondest memories are of our old 1969 Series IIA that took my wife and I on a wild ride that lasted two years, and covered 65 000km of some of the roughest country Africa has on offer. There were few challenges to which it wasn’t equal.
One of them was the mountain pass into Lalibela in northern Ethiopia which almost defeated us. We were 4 000 metres above sea level and the track dropped a sheer 1 000m into the gorge of a tributary of the Blue Nile. Our road wound above the plains of Wollo to the Peak of Mount Abune Yusef past the cliffs of Kulmesk into the ancient kingdom of Zagwe.
We had spent the night before in the desert town of Kobbo. The village kids were playing jungle gym on two burned out Soviet T52 tanks in the main street. The town mechanic joined us for some rough red wine and warned that the road to Lalibela was very bad and very tough. “But it is no problem in a Land Rover.”
We left at first light. Five hours later, we had covered only 60km. The Landy – nicknamed Mzee Kobe, Old Man Tortoise – by a Kenyan passenger, was gasping for breath. Rocks the size of soccer balls littered the road, and even in low range, first gear, the Old Man crawled two steps forward, one step backward. The combination of altitude and a dropped valve made our six cylinder, 2,6l engine a very inefficient five cylinder prone to flooding. We cleared as many boulders as possible, did a 10-point turn, tweaked the carburettor, lowered the tyre pressure, engaged low range, juggled the clutch and reversed over the summit.
The words of the mechanic came back to haunt us: “No problem in a Land Rover.”
If I had a thousand dollars for each time we got horribly stuck after someone said “the road ahead? No problem in a Land Rover,” I would be driving one of those brand new Africa Edition Defenders today.
But I love old Landies: Like good brandy, the older, the better. They embody an essential essence of Africa, capture an old romantic mood, like sitting around the fire sipping single malt whiskey listening to the sounds of an African night.
Stick an old Landy in the middle of the Serengeti surrounded by thousands of zebra and it becomes part of the landscape.
The first time we heard “no problem in a Land Rover” was in Namibia, in the Khaudum trying to get through to the Kavango. The sand is deep, the days are hot, and we had intended leaving at dawn when the sand was still moist and firm, but the camp’s water supply had collapsed so we spent the morning helping get the old Lister diesel engine going again.
We left just before midday. The chief ranger said “that track? No problem in a Land Rover.” An hour later we were up to our axles in sand, our petrol was bubbling and vapourising in 42ºC heat, and the carburettor simply shut down as vapour lock after vapour lock strangled its throat.
So we sat in the shade and drank tea, and waited until the long shadows moved in and it was cool enough to dig. The sand was like castor sugar and our spades so hot we had to wear leather gloves. We battled out and reached the Kavango River where our Namibian friends lolled in a crocodile-free pool drinking ice cold beer.
“Hey guys,” Theuns shouted as we drove up, “nice track hey? No problem in a Land Rover.” No problem.