Put Foot Rally 2016

June - July 2016

"He begins to long—ah, how he longs!—for the keen breath of the desert air; and his heart rises up in rebellion against the strict limits of the civilised life." - H R Haggard

What defines a road trip? Is it simply a large distance traveled in a motor vehicle? I think not. A road trip has an aura of adventure, whispering of roads untraveled, destinations unknown. The goal is not simply in getting from point A to point B, but rather that the journey itself is the destination.

At 47 years of age at the time, Betsy was a wonder to behold and frighteningly unsafe. A former police vehicle, she is a 1969 Series 2A Land Rover. Though her baby blue colouring may hint at her former occupation, I was determined to give her new life a more commendable existence, away from the racial injustices that almost certainly peppered her past. What better way than a charity rally through southern Africa, providing school shoes to underprivileged children? A better companion for a road trip I cannot fathom. Indeed, her age and reliability added an extra dimension to the adventure: reaching the targeted daily stop was never guaranteed. And so, many hours before the crack of dawn (a time that would become staple over the next few weeks) on 17 June, The Potjie Boytjies left Johannesburg heading for Cape Town; the starting point of The Put Foot Rally 2016. The Potjie Boytjies consisted of 4 men, myself included. I, Michael 'Brundle' Daniel was to be the team leader, main driver and mechanic. My brother, James 'Harrison Ford' Daniel, would be secondary driver and head of navigation. A necessary role as a GPS was deemed unnecessary having been led astray in the bowls of Africa before. Adam 'Ed Sheeran' Bartels, a close friend of mine from University, would be in charge of music and meals. And Christian 'Cookie' Cook, a friend since early childhood, would be the team photographer and social media expert.

With a top speed of 90kph going downhill with a tail wind, Betsy was going no where quickly and so, the 1600km journey to Cape Town was split in half, the midway point being Kambro Padstal: a quaint stopover in the beautiful karoo. Setting up camp that first night gave a glimpse of things to come, a routine that would become as smooth as grandmother's stubble in the coming weeks. We'd packed two tents: my reliable 4 man tent, Jeremy, a R800 purchase from Mr Price Sport the previous year, and still one of my best purchases to date, and a 6 man tent, Margaret Thatcher. Some less adventurous readers may think that we had over catered on the tent front but anyone who has ever been camping will undoubtedly confirm that any manufacturer specified tent capacity can be halved for a more reliable indication of the space. A 4 man tent is made to fit 4 men lying shoulder to shoulder and absolutely no more. We therefore had room for a more realistic 5 occupants and their clothes bags. With Betsy's spacious interior and roof rack we were not in want for space and could afford a few luxuries. Along with the tents we took an assortment of cutlery and cooking gear, a camping fridge, sleeping bags and mattresses, a ground sheet, an awning tarp with poles, a toolbox and spares, 6 square meters of Duro-turf (the grass that lasts), and a swing-ball set. Myself and Cookie would be housed in Jeremy, while Harry and Ed would make Margaret Thatcher their home. While Jeremy proved a most loyal companion, Margaret Thatcher let us down at every opportunity, from broken zips and snapped guy ropes to split tent poles. The morning of 18 June 2018 is still one that I remember as one of the coldest in my short life, keeping in mind the subjective nature of temperature and its dependence on circumstance. In 1969, Land Rover was not concerned with the comfort of their customers and focused instead on robustness. A feat in which they succeeded I might add, but something that brought us very little comfort while driving through Sutherland (the coldest place in South Africa) in the grip of midwinter's chill. With eyes and hands the only visible skin of all occupants, we discovered that a marvellous side effect of the lack of any thermal insulation in the cab and a poorly designed gear box is that it produces a great deal of heat after a relatively short time of travelling at cruising speed. The result was a slow rotation of team members into the passenger seat to take full advantage of this phenomenon. Registration day was held the day before the rally was scheduled to begin and was a most joyous affair. The atmosphere was one of barely contained excitement as teams mingled, getting a feeling for one another while adorning their vehicles with the rally stickers received at sign-in. As so often happens when a group of strangers meet, some teams were already gravitating toward one another, forming cliques, feeling an inexplicable sense of comradery. Our spirited entrance left no space for speculation as to what we were there to do: have as much fun as possible. Something I rather like to live my life by.

Day 1: Cape Town, South Africa to Fish River Canyon, Namibia

Although the rally was not scheduled to start for another 4 hours, the Potjie Boytjies were up and on the road at 2am. We had 826km and a border crossing to navigate before the close of day 1 and had therefore given ourselves a head start. The festivities of registration the night before, including a dinner and a briefing by the rally organisers, had resulted in not much sleep for the occupants of team 11 in Betsy. Eyelids heavy, it was while squinting into the head lights of an on-coming vehicle that I realised that individual blinks were starting to group together into alarmingly long lines. Betsy is far too unsafe as it is to add weariness into the equation and so drivers were switched tout de suite. We started getting over taken by fellow participants at around 8 am and made to the border at around 2 pm. As border crossings go, it was not too eventful but I do remember a man of unknown origin remarking that there was not a single chance that we would make the whole trip in our old Land Rover. If that man happens upon this post, I humbly solute you with a single finger good sir.

Having made it to the canyon just after sunset, we sat down to a few cold beers amongst the various motorcar antiquities that made up the classic styling of the Canyon Roadhouse. To our dismay, there were no more rooms at the inn but the outcome was much more to our liking as we followed a few other teams to a dry riverbed a few kilometres down the road and set up camp. Having deemed the setting up of tents far too big a bother, we rolled out the awning from the side of Betsy's roof rack and a ground sheet beneath and gave it not a second thought.

Day 2: Fish River Canyon to Sossusvlei, Namibia

Once again it was a bright and early start to day 2. It was decidedly less pleasant than we expected, however, when we all woke up to wet heads and feet. A curious incident indeed and one that was traced back to the size of the awning and our sleeping positions. The awning was not wide enough to protect us from the elements and therefore the extremities of our sleeping bags extended beyond the limits of its coverage. Rain was not something we feared in the climes of Namibia but something we had not considered was morning dew. Never the less, we swiftly packed up and headed to the canyon for sunrise. The Fish River Canyon is second only to the Grand Canyon in North America. We were treated to a glorious sunrise, something that the clear skies of Namibia are guaranteed to provide, while sipping on warm beverages heated up by Diego, the homemade rocket stove of my making.

Today we'd be heading to the red dunes of Sossusvlei, one of my favourite places on earth. Betsy reeled in the miles of sand roads as we passed through the arid landscape of scattered bushes and the occasional outcropping of igneous rock. We came descending into the campsite as the sun was dipping below the mountainous western horizon. The angle of the sun and the dust filled air made for an interesting final stretch, cresting hills on faith alone, blinded by the golden haze. Thankfully there's not much to crash into in the Namib.

Day 3: Sossusvlei to Windhoek, Namibia

Day 3 was a hot one. Any classic land rover owner will attest to the poor capability of Landys in high temperatures. It was thus that we found ourselves continuously stopping to let Betsy cool off on the pass climbing out of Sossusvlei. Luckily the scenery made the breaks bearable and soothed our frustrations. As the team photographer, it also gave Cookie a lot of time to improve his photography skills, something much appreciated by all.

We rolled into Urban Camp in Windhoek (for the second time in as many years for Harry and myself) around 18:30 that evening. Being reasonably priced accommodation, Urban Camp is favoured by all manner of interesting people; an intersection where many life paths briefly intersect before going their separate ways. And the people met while travelling are as much a part of the adventure as the journey itself. The paths we crossed that night were more far-between than few: A Dakar truck training in the dunes of Namibia. A Swedish couple cycling Africa. A Solar Car Team from the University of Johannesburg. And an Indian fellow, Debnath, cycling the world for AIDS awareness, 12 years in and on his way up the west coast of Africa. He spoke of the cosmic energy of the universe and being invited to orgies while couch-surfing. A very interesting man indeed. Come to think of it, we may have met him at the very same camp the year before, but his story is worth telling none the less.

The night ended in Joe's Beerhouse, a most spectacular establishment offering beer by the meter, delivered on a length of plank.

Day 4: Windhoek to Etosha, Namibia

By this time we had started to establish a group of teams along with whom we got along particularly well. We'd often sleep at the same campsites, give the customary wave in passing, or stop on the roadside together given the chance. On one such occasion, we pulled over to stretch the old legs and were soon joined by the newly wedded couple Marc and Jacqui in their VW Beetle. They were followed by the Americans in their trusty rented 4x4 (Coincidentally, one of their team member's names was Betsy. Fancy that). Not long after that we were dancing on the side of the road to a rendition of La Bamba by Enderson on the guitar while Betsy and the Beetle cooled off in the midday heat.

We arrived at the first checkpoint just outside Etosha in the late afternoon with just enough time to set up camp before the festivities began. Once dressed in the appropriate attire, that of animal onesies with the theme of the checkpoint party being 'The Animal Kingdom', we started making the rounds around the campsite, checking in with various teams and having the odd shooter when offered. A memorable shot was that given by a member who we would soon be calling Dad, of a variety called Brand Slang, which translates to Fire Snake, and is made by leaving a few chillies in a bottle of vodka (or more likely mampoer (moon shine)) for a few months prior to consumption. The result was much more entertaining that any of us were expecting when Harry's nose started to bleed shortly after consuming the fiery brew. Something I have neither heard of nor seen again since.

Due to our substantial levels of gees (spirit), evident in the daily voice notes we'd been sending to the rally group, the race organiser asked us to MC the evening and host a fines meeting, allocating drinks to teams who'd behaved with less than the requisite levels of respect of course of course. We used this opportunity to spread some gees and introduced a competition to encourage creative drive byes as teams inevitably passed Betsy on the road, something that would yield fruit aplenty by the end of the rally. The party was a smashing success and cemented the Potjie Boytjies in the role of master of ceremonies for the remainder of the rally.

Day 5 : Etosha to Tsumeb, Namibia

The morning of day 5 was one where sunglasses were needed before opening the tent flaps. Luckily for us, Tannie (Aunty) Adele had the bacon rolls and coffee ready as we stepped out the tent. Sustained, we packed up and headed into Etosha National Park for a leisurely day of game driving on our way to Tsumeb where we'd camp for the night. The game drive gave Ed his first opportunity to drive Betsy and a get feel for the old girl. It is a unique experience and afterwards he told me that he immediately respected me more as a man.

Day 6: Tsumeb to Ngepi, Caprivi Strip, Namibia

Day 6 took us through the Caprivi strip on our way to the border between Namibia and Zambia. The scenery was that of the classic African bushveld with the occasional wild beast (usually cattle), rural village or roadside vendor selling African wood carvings.

That night was spent on the banks of the Okavango River at Camp Ngepi where the sun set down river, casting long orange reflections over its waters until the surface mirrored the sky. This was a stop that a number of teams decided to make and so what followed was a night of shared banter which descended into good natured drinking games and questionable decisions.

Day 7: Ngepi to Livingstone, Zambia

Retrospectively, the morning of day 7 was when Betsy showed her first signs of fatigue. With a border crossing and a notoriously bad road ahead, we had risen before the earliest bird and had packed up camp before first light began to colour our surroundings. Starting the 2.25l, 4 cylinder petrol engine of a 1969 Land Rover is by no means a quiet affair. Even less so when she struggles to start and the cyclic whine of the starter motor goes on and on and on. At the time I attributed this to the cold morning air but I was later to find that the culprit was something else entirely. Mercifully she started before anyone could make a fuss and we were on our way.

Neither of us recall whether the border crossing was arduous or not because what we experienced on the other side cast a shadows over any previous events of the day. We had been told to expect the worst road quality of the trip for the road leading from the Zambian Border to Livingstone but it far exceeded anything imaginable. Potholes, some so vast that they could surely no longer fall into that classification, and so numerous as to render the road surface as swiss cheese, extended for some 200km.

This single stretch of road took us 6 long, uncomfortable hours of intermittent braking, swerving and jolting. Where possible, the sandy roadsides were preferable to the surface and lanes were non existent. The road claimed many victims, punctured tires being considered lucky with dented rims and damaged axles being the more severe outcome. As a result of the road quality we were barely overtaken and had the rare pleasure of not being the last to roll into camp that night, something of little comfort to our defeated crew. The Mozzie beers never tasted sweeter.

Day 8 and 9: Livingstone, Zambia

Livingstone was the location of our second checkpoint where we would not only have the customary checkpoint party, but would be doing our first shoe drop as well. This meant that we'd be here for two days, getting some rest and preparing for the events to come. First and foremost on the agenda was the shoe drop. This was an event of much excitement and one we had all been looking forward to. Betsy had even been bestowed with the honour of leading the procession to the school, a position coveted by many teams. It was therefore with horror that try as I might, I could not get Betsy to start. On the brink of panicking, a rustle was heard in the bushes and out stepped a man in short khaki pants. With little more than a glance he inquired whether we had some Vaseline and a nail file. Both were hastily provided and after a matter of minutes Betsy fired up and was purring like an African serval. Job done, he headed back from whence he came and from that moment on he was referred to as Yoda, spoken of in hushed tones and toasted in silent respect.

With Betsy leading, the convoy wound its way through rural Livingstone and ceremoniously delivered shoes and socks to a much needed school in the outskirts of town. Shoe fitting gave us some time to converse with a few of the students before getting onto the soccer field for a clash with the locals. Our city-boy feet did not fare well on the sand pitch and after an hour we all came limping off with blistered soles and smiling faces. Looking back, this was the single event of the rally that had the greatest impact on my life. A cliché it may be, but I knew now that I wanted to make a difference. Everyone has those defining moments on their timelines that they can think back to and see where their paths made a turn. This is one such moment for me.

Unfortunately for Harry, the stomach bug that had been going around camp had taken up residence in his body, and the failure of Cookie to stay sufficiently hydrated during the shoe drop festivities had resulted in both men being down for the count when the time came for the party. They both made it through our MC duties but retired early, the latter being forced into creating a Jackson Pollock in a toilet stall before making it to the tent. Myself and Ed honourably represented the team into the early hours of the morning before staggering back to camp. The following morning, hanging like wizard's sleeves, Ed and I found that the temporary zombie tattoos we had applied to our faces were not as temporary as the packaging suggested. As the day was an official rest day, we could do nothing but suck it up and bare the confused stares of passing strangers as we took to Livingstone as tourists. Sight seeing was the order of the day, the culmination of which was witnessing the splendour of the Victoria Falls. The smoke that thunders, as it is referred to in the local tongue, proves an apt description for the falls with its billowing clouds of mist hanging over the gorge into which the waters plunge. The sight is one that evokes silence, before soaking you to the skin.

The day ended with a sunset cruise up the Zambezi, complimented with G&T's and elephant sightings on the bank.

Day 10: Livingstone to Lusaka, Zambia

Feeling rejuvenated after the rest day, albeit a tad hungover as evening drinks were a staple at this point, it was time to get back on the road, heading northeast to Lusaka, the capital of Zambia. Driving into the rising sun, the Potjie Boytjies slept on as I drove Betsy past herds of Elephants on the roadside. Ed, unable to stomach the dry bread that was our breakfast due to the parched nature of his mouth, had fallen asleep with a piece of bread in his mouth, trying to moisten it before attempting a swallow. Even in sleep, my teammates were providing entertainment.

As was inevitable living in such close quarters, my day of suffering with the stomach bug had come. And what poor timing it was as most will agree that there are few things worse than diarrhea when facilities are not within sprinting distance. The gravity of the situation was fully understood by all occupants and it was agreed that given a signal, Harry, now driving, would pull over without question. Thankfully, this emergency evacuation procedure (pun intended) only occurred once that day when, with spade and toilet paper in hand, I was seen sprinting into the bushes. Never a pleasant experience, as bos-kaks are awkward at the best of times.

Mercifully, the day's journey came to an end, but not before Harry received a speeding fine coming into the buzzing metropolis of Lusaka, quite a feat indeed. Something made more awkward by Betsy's inability to stop alongside the police officer, and back to whom we had to sheepishly reverse.

Eureka Camp proved a most tranquil accommodation as we pitched our tents to the snuffle of Zebras and Giraffes grazing in the shade of the campsite.

Day 11: Lusaka to Mama Rulas, Zambia

As mentioned previously, we had encouraged creative drive-byes by passing teams as they overtook Betsy on the road. As a further reminder, we had, rather shamefully, put a sign on our back window asking for 'Boobs out for the boys'. This was recognized by many and we were blessed with wondrous views from the fairer sex, old and young alike, throughout the week. By the end of the rally, along with bare chests, we received beers, sandwiches, Bar One chocolates, a leopard skin beanie, many words of encouragement and a few moonings (a favour that we promptly returned) by passers by. But by far the most appreciated was a box of Oshikandela handed by the rally organiser through an open window. This creamy drinking yoghurt is the nectar of the gods and Namibia's gift to Africa. It was a surprise worthy of the smiles it received, mirrored on the face of the benefactor.

Day 12,13, 14: Mama Rulas to Senga Bay, Malawi

The border crossing into Malawi was the longest we had on the trip. Something about the online system being down meant that all paperwork was being done by hand and had to be duplicated before admittance. We met an interesting fellow with a magnificent beard working for the Kingsley Holgate foundation with whom we could pass the time. Inevitably, the subject of his beard came up and he told us that, far from a fashion statement, the beard was a tool for border crossings. This is due to the importance bestowed upon the aged man/boss, a makulu, in African culture. He'd therefore often be ushered to the front of lines and given preferential treatment at the border, a useful trait when one's job involves frequent border crossings while providing aid all across southern Africa.

Malawi is one of the poorest counties in the world, if not the poorest. But what they lack in money, they make up for in hospitality. During our stay, I was actually offered a place in a man's house, along with a wife if I ever returned and so desired. Due to the state of their economy, the barter system is still used throughout the market place and clothes can be exchanged for almost anything. Bicycles are the preferred mode of transportation and are used for freight as well as taxis where a cushion is placed on a platform above the rear wheel. Huge loads, at times upwards of 100kgs, of sugar, charcoal or firewood are stacked and tied to the old steel-framed bikes and carried by these peddlers.

On entering Salima, the last town before our camp, we very nearly had a collision with a massive black bull. This was not due to its sudden appearance in the road ahead, but rather to Betsy's minimum stopping distance. Luckily, standing on the brakes (quite literally with my full weight) while he turned his head to watch, unmoving, we came to a halt within a ruler length of his dreary expression. Satisfied that he'd seen all there was to see, he turned and lumbered off the road, unharmed and uninterested.

We arrived at the great lake Malawi at 17:00 that afternoon to the tunes of Wamkelekile, a most appropriate song, meaning welcome. As usual, we were the last team to arrive but this had its perks as we always had a welcoming party to greet us with smiles and cold beers. We wasted little time setting up camp on the beach, about 50m from the waters edge, before going for a celebratory dip. This was the furthest north either of us had been in Africa and the northern most checkpoint of the rally.

The morning of day 13, although some of the worst conditions I've woken up to while camping, holds some of the fondest memories. On arrival, we had found it rather strange that no other team had pitched camp on the beach but had chosen the protection of the wooded area. We didn't give this much thought at the time, proving our youthful foolishness. As a result, in the early hours of the morning, I was woken by a raucous flapping as the wind, which had obviously gathered substantial strength over the vast open waters of the lake, whipped at our camp with merciless ferocity. Sitting up I saw that Jeremy's flysheet had been blown off and was flapping behind us like a cape while still attached to the leeward pegs. This, I soon found, was our saving grace because it enabled the wind to move through our tent. Looking over to Margaret Thatcher, Harry and Ed had no such luck, and as a result, their tent lay flat in the gale force winds, slapping her sleeping occupants with each passing gust. I've found that in situations such as these, with the damage already done, the cost of getting up to attend to the problem is not worth the benefit of sleep. Harry and Ed evidently had the same idea and we all rolled over, resigned our camp to fate, and slept for a few more blissful hours. The image of Harry and Ed crawling out of their tent at dawn, hollow eyed and unimpressed, is still etched into my mind.

This being the third checkpoint, we'd be having a checkpoint party and two rest days. After moving our camp into a more sheltered area, we spent the rest of the day 2 enjoying the company of our fellow participants on the banks of Lake Malawi, quietly preparing for the party that night. The theme was 'Beach party' so as the time came, we donned our swimming shorts and floral wreaths, drew on some fake tattoos and headed to the jol (party). The party, fuelled by neon lights and body paint, proved too much for some. Ever the gentlemen, we helped one damsel in distress navigate the obstacle course that was the ladder to her roof top tent, getting her safely to bed before the vultures could descend. Ed showed previously unheard of strength when he threw a young rogue bodily out of his tent who had stumbled in and parked a tiger all over his pillow. I may or may not have slept on the beach at some point and I'm fairly certain the night ended with a bonfire and kumbaya. Needless to say, the morning of day 14 was a very quiet one in Senga Bay.

The stomach bug had finally caught up with Ed. He put in a valiant effort but the alcohol of night 13 proved to be too much for his immune system and he spent much of day 14 suspended between two trees in a hammock.

Morale was at an all time low in the evening when we did not win the potjie competition. Utterly ashamed that we hadn't lived up to our name, we wallowed in self pity for the next 3 to 6 hours, skimming stones and kicking sticks in sad reverie.

Day 15: Lake Malawi to Bridge Camp, Zambia

Under normal conditions, the rally would now be heading southeast to Mozambique where the rally would come to an end. Unfortunately for us, at the time there was political unrest in the northern parts of Mozambique and it was deemed unsafe for us to be passing through the region. We would therefore be finishing in Botswana. Heading back the way we had come, we were now driving southwest back towards Livingstone. Once again back in Zambia, we passed children selling cooked mice on sticks and charcoal sellers advertising their wares in big white bags propped up on the side of road.

As usual, we arrived at our destination, Bridge Camp, in the late afternoon. As sometimes happened, we could not be bothered to pitch both tents and contented ourselves in sharing a close night in Margaret Thatcher under the watchful stars of the milky way.

Day 16: Bridge camp to Livingstone, Zambia

Day 16 was an uneventful day as we lumbered onward towards Livingstone. We did get the opportunity to use our spare fuel supply, filling up Betsy on the side of the road about 100km from our destination. As you can imagine, a small space filled with four men for prolonged periods is prone to certain unavoidable issues, one of these being a rather pungent aroma. This became particularly noticeable in the sweltering heat during midday and we were eventually forced to enforce a 'No arm lifting' rule in the confines of the cabin.

Day 17: Livingstone to Elephant Sands, Botswana

The previous evening in Livingstone, I had decided during my daily Betsy servicing that the left rear wheel needed changing because, on inspection, chunks of tread were missing. By no means a novice in tire changing, I had the job done with little difficulty and Betsy was ready again to hit the road. About 20km outside Livingstone the next morning, what started as a previously unheard rattle, quickly progressed into a violent shaking of the whole vehicle. On sticking his head out the window, Ed immediately turned to me and told me to pull over, NOW. His tone indicated the severity of the situation and I obeyed. We hopped out the find the left rear wheel on the limits of its threads, the nuts having loosened, some a single thread away from being lost.

This was a sobering sight indeed and my heart dropped into my stomach at the thought of what would have happened if it had come off. I had obviously not tightened the nuts enough the night before, having changed the tire for the first time with a different, shorter wheel spanner. Heart still pounding in my ears with what could have been, I got out the hi-lift jack and got to work, working with extreme caution given the unstable nature of hi-lift jacks and my shattered nerves.

A barge and a river crossing made the border crossing back into Botswana a memorable event. At most African borders there are often people walking around offering help with the necessary crossing documentation and procedures for a fee. Being well traveled by now, we were familiar with the process but were quite fed up with waiting in lines. A fellow had approached us, offering his services and promising a speedy transfer for what we thought a reasonable fee, and so, after some deliberation, we decided to utilise his services. I don't know exactly how he did it, and I still question the legality of the transaction with the rife state of bribery in Africa, but after a short time we were ushered through the gates and were quite literally the first vehicle onto the next barge.

As was with many a lunch stop thus far in the trip, we chose a remote location at which to feast to appreciate the serenity of our surroundings. It being the untamed African bush however, we always erred on the side of caution and set a watch lest we be ambushed by savage beasts!

That night was spent under the Botswana skies at Elephant Sands, accompanied by wild elephants drinking at the local water hole, much like us.

Day 18: Elephant sands to Camp Itumela

The final stretch was upon us. 409km separated us from glory, but smooth sailing would have been too easy. Cruising south towards Camp Itumela that morning, we would periodically hear a thump and get a glimpse of a black shape in the side mirror before it vanished into the distance. At first we put this down to charcoal falling out of the big bag we had on the roof but as it became more frequent I decided to pull over to stop the leak. On inspection, the charcoal bag was secure and unopen. Very curious indeed. Continuing the search, it was Harry who discovered big chunks of tread missing from the left rear wheel, some deep enough for the wire to be showing through. On closer examination, we found that the exhaust pipe had come loose from its mount and was hitting the wheel, ripping off chucks at high speed. And so for the third time that rally, I got out the hi-lift jack and changed the left rear wheel. Harry used his vellie shoe lace to tie up the exhaust and we were back on the road. The spare wheel was already damaged however so we were anxious to get two new tires. Luckily for us, 4x4 tyres are common in the Botswana bush and we were able to get two second hand tyres at the next town.

The Potjie Boytjies pulled into Camp Itumela at 17:18 on 7 July 2016, having completed 8011km through 5 southern African countries in 21 days. Music blaring, we were welcomed into the camp with smiles and finishing medals and not a small amount of shouting. We had made it. The old girl was as much a team member as any of us, her quirks having given her a personality and cemented her in our hearts. A relationship only classic car owners will understand.

The festivities that followed that night we nothing short of epic including a prize giving where we were honoured with the award for the team who most embodied the spirit of the rally. A small tarnish on an otherwise perfect night was the fight I almost got into when a playful game of stealing team hats was blown out of proportion, undoubtedly fuelled by the state of inebriation of all parties involved. This was not enough to suppress the merriment of the occasion however and we danced until the last song had run its course.

We spent the following two days lumbering back to Johannesburg at our leisurely pace. Instead of going straight home, we decided to finish our trip at the Jolly Roger pub and were joined by a host of friends, eager to hear our tales of adventure over cold beers and warm pizzas.

---

Visit the Potjie Boytjie Instagram page

Photos were taken mostly by Christian Cook and Justin Lee

Visit the Put Foot Rally website