Could we really be nearly released from our urban prison?

We've been promised that our boat is landing tonight and that we can get the car out tomorrow. Obviously we remain braced for yet another kick in the balls but this is feeling pretty positive! All the paper work done yesterday - we'd originally been told a 5 minute job....7 hours later, with the boss lady working for us directly and putting a rush on things with customs we were done. And somehow grateful despite the never before mentioned £500 fee for the privilege! (Yet another balls up from Grimaldi who when asked the direct question "are you sure we don't have to pay anything on top at the other end to get the car out" replied "no, no....if anything maybe like a tenner port tax or something, but definitely nothing more than 50 quid" Morons!)

Otherwise, a positive day here. It sounds like both Alfie and Rodders are broken, but they have now rendez-vous'ed with Jez so things will perk up there. By all accounts Jeremy steered clear of the prostitutes sharing his bus out of Kinshasa, despite the bus driver's best intentions, so retains a clean bill of health.

We've found a spare wheel bearing, which puts our mind at rest as Africa eats them, and even some off cuts of foam to prop up our left butt cheeks where there is a void in chopper's current padding arrangement.

Keep all fingers, toes and other body parts crossed for us in the morning...with a bit of luck this will be the last post (at least from Will and me) for a few days as the fun really begins...driving dusk till dawn for a week to try and make up time!

(apols for the lack of photos in the last few posts....do a google image search for Libreville and Port Owendo. That should pretty much cover it)

The daily routine

By WD:

Libreville...

It is now Friday and the last few days have continued in a depressingly rhythmic pattern as follows: wake up sweating, curse there being a well equipped, if filthy, bathroom but without any running water; death-ride to the port in a taxi, wonder how many times it’s possible to cheat death in a 20 minute journey; talk to Getma, become irate at ineptitude; drink a coffee; talk to port authority, become irate at ineptitude; taxi back to town; kill a few hours and then head to the ‘Chef’ for the cheapest beers in town.

In the last few days there have been 2 incidents provoking emotions other than anger and frustration. The first was on Thursday being told by a well meaning, but moronic, gent at the port that we would be able to pick up Chopper the following day. High fives and fist pumps all round, fantastic news, still 2 weeks late but we’ll take what we can get at this stage. We race to the port to sort paperwork but are told by Getma that what we have been told is complete bollocks and the boat isn’t due until Samedi Soir. The earliest we can pick it up will be Monday. Bugger. We have gone from cloud nine to rock bottom in the space of an hour and our patience is now wafer thin.

This brings me to the second incident: we decide in classic British fashion that the only answer is to drink enough beer to forget that we are in the middle of an African bureaucratic vortex that we are valiantly struggling, but ultimately failing, to exit. Before we leave, my urine (akin to cooking oil in both colour and viscosity) tells me I am extremely dehydrated, alas we have no water. Beer seems the only substitute and we go hard on the 50p pints for the next few hours rolling back to the ‘hotel’ at midnight. This morning it feels as if a pig has shat in my head and i’m sluggish to say the least but we are continuing our fight and progress might be being made, however I have thought this before...

About that burger....and other miscellaneous

As It turned my wallet was in Ramrod and our remedial chlorine water and antibiotics staved off the diarrhoea. #smallmercies

However, the burgers deserves another mention because they were something of a culinary wonder. The kitchen they were prepared in appeared to be functional, if basic to say the least. It seemed it could heat things. We therefore assumed that in the 40 minutes it took to cook the burgers*, they would become piping hot and delicious. Not so. As he plopped the food down on the table, the opportunistic chef picked up a chip that had slipped off a plate and gobbled it down enthusiastically, giving us a big grin and an enthusiastic thumbs up as if to say “bloody hell that’s a good chip I’ve made”. We followed suit, and were absolutely perplexed as to how he had made the just-above-room-temperature stale chips. Had he cooked them before the burgers and allowed them to cool? Surely they wouldn’t be so stale. Perhaps he had cooked them yesterday and just tossed a handful onto each plate now. If so, how were they not quite stone cold? Maybe they had just been on a slow burn all day long. However it was done, it was a real achievement. The burgers were in a similar vain, but all the more worrying as a cold burger can be far more venomous than a cold chip. Foolishly we still wolfed them down, throwing our bowels into the hands of the gods.

And this wasn’t a one off incident. On two other occasions we have ordered food off the menu here. First was the plate of chips that took an hour to cook in a deserted restaurant (they hadn’t been forgotten as the waitress continually assured us that they were almost ready). Then there was the chicken and chips. The latter piping hot, but the tepid former causing imaginations to run wild as with no lights we couldn’t see what we were eating. The temperature alone inspired the comment “yep, that tastes exactly like the shits to me”.

Now onto other things. The Gabonese are a lovely bunch in general, but the taxi drivers are an odd breed. Almost everywhere else we’ve been in the world taxis are either on a meter, or more likely at a price negotiated at the start of the journey. Here however, they don’t even stop for you. The protocol for getting a taxi is to think of a price and a destination, and then shout them (in that order) through the window of a moving taxi in the hope that he hears you. Nine times out of ten drive pulls a disgusted face, shakes his head and speeds off. IF he approves, he pulls a disgusted face, doesn’t look you in the eye or say a word, but gives a short toot on his horn and stops. I guess Gabonese taxi drivers do ok, but it seems odd that they choose to throw away so much custom. If they just stopped and discussed a price they might find they can treat the wife and kids a little more often.

The fun doesn’t stop once you’re in the taxi. Jesus Christ are they scary. Almost without fail they sound as though they might fall apart at any second, and then they drive like complete lunatics. Our best yet was the guy who did 70 down the “motorway” quite literally 2 inches from the bumper of the car in front, and then showing off with a few minutes of “no hands”, weaving between lanes using his knees, while playing with his phone. Of course, neither of us piped up just in case we looked like wimps.

And finally, eyebrows. I'm all for ladies who take time to look attractive, and that extends to a little eyebrow preening. But here, they've really taken it to the next level. Eyebrows are all pencil thin and give such a look of surprise i keep looking over my shoulder to wonder what it is that has shocked the poor women! The best are the ones where they've actually completely removed the dark brown/black eyebrows, and painted on red ones! Really special stuff. Sadly no pictures to share, so we'll leave it to your imaginations.

*Unlike Europe and the States where “fast food” is a term with negative connotations and hence avoided, here it is banded around liberally on shop fronts. Unfortunately it does not do exactly (or anything like) what it says on the tin!

So....Libreville

We arrived back from Loango on Sunday, on tenterhooks about retrieving the Chopper the following morning. Getma, the port agent had told us it would arrive some time last week, and Grimaldi’s London office (the shipping line) had told us it was due to be unloaded over the weekend. Long story short, they’re all liars and it wasn’t there. Corinne, the Getma manager has told us quite matter of factly that the delay is whole heartedly down to the four day independence holiday (thanks very much France), and that normally boats are never delayed by more than a day or two vs schedule. My question to her and to Grimaldi I think is fairly reasonable....did you not see this coming? Gabon gained independence 53 years ago, and has been celebrating the fact every year, like clockwork, ever since. I wonder if they crumble in a flurry of panic each year as independence yet again catches them by surprise?

Oh well. C’est la vie. C’est l’Afrique! So what to do? This was Monday and Jez was flying in to Kinshasa some 1000km away on Tuesday evening to meet us. Being a complete baller he has booked two nights in 5 star luxury, but after that, spending his remaining 10 days of annual leave alone in the DRC getting robbed might wear a little thin. With little faith in anything the port tells us we had to plan for a worst case scenario of the car not coming in for at least another week, so we decided to split. Alfie would fly solo for two days, driving south to meet Mr. Simmons and Daisy and I would wait it out here for the Chopper to land. Hopefully we’ll be chasing them down in a couple of days, but should the car not arrive until next week at least we’ll be in two pairs.

So we ate consolatory burgers for lunch, and having finished decided that they were definitely cold enough to give us the shits. Fate can be a cruel mistress at times but only time would tell if she was really out to get us today. Then we divvied up the gear and waved goodbye to Alfie, leaving the original wrecking crew from parts 1 and 2. Ten minutes later I realised I’d misplaced my wallet. The only possible way for this day to get any worse would be for that burger to kick in and an explosion of watery faeces to trickle down my leg.

Loango: 'Africa's Last Eden'

By WD:

Coolbox-gate: Alf finally crumbles and agrees that leaving the coolbox in Abuja was a crime worthy of death. We replace and then stock up with Castel - a local brew that is enough to not be absolutely awful and then hit the road. 6 hours later we all pucker up when Rodders starts to squeal like a piggy. But why? We stopped to look at it. We shook various things. Drove forward and backwards. Why wasn’t Rodders happy? We still don’t know. We pressed on until dark and ended up asking a local, Roy (the Boy) if we could make camp in his garden. He says that his brother has a much better place just down the road - everything is relative. We head down the road and get invited to the local bar for a drink, obviously we are paying and get a few Regab’s in for the bar. They seem a mostly friendly bunch though we begin to realise that Roy the Boy is a few sandwiches short of a picnic so we call time at the bar after 2 and return and cook some dinner - something tinned, of course. Roy the Boy gets on our nerves and we hit the hay at a reasonable hour.

We race away from Roy the Boy in the morning before he has enough time to get his buzz on again and we reach Loango, ‘Africa’s last Eden’, 1 hr later. We drive into the lodge and try to figure out how to get across the lagoon into the park but it turns out Loango may as well be on a different planet as it is the hardest tourist destination to reach I have ever come across.

We meet a Frenchman call Mathieu who realises we are too poor to stay at his lodge and kindly gets a guide of his, Yuri, to spend the night with us on the other side. Top man. this is not strictly street legal and we end up incurring the wrath of ‘The Conservateur’, ‘The Brigadier’ and ‘Bob’. No joke. this rumbles on for a day or two and somehow we manage to not pay a bribe. Remarkable. Yuri invites us for dinner at his preceded by a few pina coladas - Alfie starts strong but fades quickly. Poof. 

The next day we ended up going on a cruise to see some elephants etc. and I went up to my knee in what Putnam believes is faeces while wearing my only pair of trousers and

in the middle of stalking buffalo on foot. They spy us. We try not to snigger like schoolboys. It’s too hard and they scarper. On our way back we are spotted by the stand-in Brigadier who was eager to seize his moment of importance and wants to bring up our illicit trip to the park with Yuri, no doubt to extract a ‘tax’. He imposes his authority by ordering us to wait whilst he visits the little boys room to drop off the Gabonese Paras. He returns in the fashion of an all conquering emperor with one of the most infuriatingly slow walks I have ever witnessed. The topic is covered in 10 minutes but there is the typical Africa repetition so we end up being there for about an hour before we stand up and leave saying we will call The Conservateur the next day.

We hit the road as the sun goes down and find a nice spot where we light a fire and put some tins of ravioli on the heat. We eat out of the can sitting on the floor (Alf forgot the camp-chairs, silly billy). Almost as soon as our forks our down we all simultaneously declare our need to poo and do so immediately. Put Put is done first and takes on the role of lead photographer (I must remember to delete these before I show the grandparents). We all congratulate each other on a job well done and prepare for bed as we have an early start to (hopefully) head back to Libreville to pick up Chopper.

Lady luck is trumped by African administrative ineptitude.

With many an "eeeeee" we picked up Daisy and his extraordinarily heavy bag (god knows why....except for a £100 poly-cotton tarpaulin) and did exactly as any self respecting trio of Brits on Tour would on such a reunion: went to the beach for a beer! This soon turned into several beers, and culminated in some sort of jungle themed bar with a perilous number of water features for such an inebriated bunch. We did meet some French expats who usefully gave us their numbers to help with getting into national parks etc. Sadly we didn't remember they'd given them to us until several days later!

After a cosy night with 3 in a bed (bar the period I inexplicably chose to sleep on the concrete floor) we awoke with some of the driest mouths ever known to man. Day in particular who had spent the previous 36 hours either on an anhydrous Ethiopian airways flight or putting away copious lagers. Alfie, being a complete pervert, went for a 2 hour run, while the sane 2 of us dragged ourselves out in search of water. Normally we try to keep things on the cheap, but in our state Daisy and I were in no position to argue with Alfie's high rolling mood so we splashed some serious cash on omelettes with all the trimmings in search of better health.

We knew the next day was going to be a big one....the first day the Port would be open after the 4 day holiday to get the chopper out, so we set about finding a nice campsite for D-day eve. This we found at Costa Brava (I think....its definitely not Costa del Sol) although Alfie, ever the perfectionist decided it wasn't quite right so went in search of somewhere better. He failed, although did try and convince us that the workers compound he's found was more idyllic than our deserted white sand beach, but he did find a shop selling refreshments...between the two we were sorted. I skinny dipped and even washed. What a dream!

Early doors start in the morning as the beautiful beach was a long way from the port...both geographically and emotionally, and we wanted to be first in. Being a little early Alfie predictably dragged us out for a pain au chocolat (he's yet to subscribe to the lean regime of the Ramrod Rally) and then it was go time. TIA, so we of course spent several 15 minute waiting periods in the wrong offices before someone thought we might be interested to know where indeed the right office was. Once in the right office, hope gently waned as the to and fro-ing failed to result in any happy news. Despite being over a week late already, they think the boat will be in the port on Firday. Shit! In fact the only thing they managed to do for us was give us an invoice for 272 Euros which apparently we are to gracefully pay once our package has arrived, for the privilege of having them drive the car from a boat onto the dock. Today did not go well.

If there's one thing we learnt from parts 1 and 2 its to roll with the punches. So we propped our chins back up and decided we'd head to Loango national park as planned and come back next weekend to have another crack at battling African bureaucracy. On our way out we got a wheel bearing tightened assuming the mechanics knew what they were doing. They didn't, jacking it up on a 10% slope and promptly dropping it on its hub!

And then we were three...

The policemen on both sides of the crossing had clearly failed to read the African border guard raining manual. No Kafkaesque bureaucracy, no attempts to exhort money, no five hour wait while they fetch the man with the stamp. Just a friendly 'Bon voyage'.

In northern Gabon the rain forest was so dense that we had to camp on a village green. The elders were very welcoming and in return we became babysitters to dozens of fascinated children for the evening. The ratio of children to adults seemed very high, which made more sense when one of our hosts told us, after a long pause for some mental arithmetic, that he had 14. It was comforting to see how familiar their games of throwing grass in each others faces were. Luckily our schoolboy french had left us with a good knowledge suitable reprimands. Several hours of playing the avuncular entertainers later we eventually managed to light a fire, cook our food and persuade them to go to bed. The next morning we were woken to find a row of eager faces again peering into our tent.

Whoever made up Equatorial Guinea (and, judging by its shape, someone definitely did) really didn't have the convenience of overland travelers in mind. Well, not the sort too disorganised to get a full set of visas anyway. This meant a long day of detouring before we finally arrived in Libreville.

The capital of Gabon seemed pretty bland on first inspection, but this might have been because the entire city was on a four day public holiday (a legacy of the French no doubt). Instead of hanging around we headed aimlessly north. Had we drawn a picture of our perfect camping spot (and assuming we could draw) we could not have improved on what we stumbled upon in Cap Esterias: a flat patch of grass in between a tropical forest and a picturesque beach, looking out on the Gulf of Guinea. There was even a small shack serving cold beer. There's very little to say about the next few days. We slept, we ran, we read, we ate, we drank and we waited for the inevitable change of fortune.

We returned to Libreville to find the streets lined with military vehicles, always a slightly disconcerting experience in Africa. Fortunately in this it was for the 53rd anniversary of Independence. Later that day, and to everyone's surprise, Daisy arrived ahead of schedule and with all his luggage.

Cameroon: check!

TP: So on Sunday we said goodbye to Gillian* and set off with our sore heads, poorly packed car and new haircut. First up though I displayed fine mechanical prowess by successfully changing the oil...I can probably fix anything now...

The only possible complaint we can make about Cameroon is that its too easy...tarmac roads complete with white lines, very friendly locals, and non-corrupt police! I did get slightly ripped off by an old lady in a village...but even that was entertaining! She told me I could buy a sachet of "whiskey" for 100 CFA so I humoured her, but didn't seem to get a sachet in return. It turns out she meant I could buy a sachet of whiskey for her because it was Sunday!

A very leisurely couple of hours later we arrived at the outskirts of Kribi and took the first dirt road to the beach where we found the Residence St. Benoit and Roger, the lovely owner/guardian who was very happy for us to park our car with him and camp on the beach. Very picturesque beach and the sea was such a perfect temperature it was hard to get out. After being invited to a graduation ceremony next week, we inquired from the guy sweeping the floor about getting some food and drink. Roger's kids were swiftly dispatched to buy us beers and our friend offered us spaghetti....it turns out he was just another very hospitable guest! We shared dinner with him and his friend (not wife - put my foot in it there!) and had great chats. He's a tour guide and will soon be leading a trip to Senegal and back.

In the morning, we went running. Yes, this is what happens if you go travelling with PHiggins apparently! I know its good for me and I should do it, but I really did not sign up for this shit! Anyway, we got to Kribi which doesn't really exist as a town then Alf ran back while I more sensibly took a mototaxi. Must remember to eat before running in future.

After getting our car washed by Rogers kids we rolled out, and went for a quick canoe trip inland from Kribi during which we bought some still wriggling prawns to cook up later. (We had to reverse haggle for the car wash - they wanted 15p, we gave them £1). Unfortunately we don't have visas for Equatorial Guinea, so had a fairly major obstacle to get around. We hoped to stay in the Campo nature reserve, but it soon transpired that while we were very close, there were no roads to access it from this side. We stopped to confirm this fact at a village, and Daniel, the chief promptly invited us to camp in his village, which we accepted. The hospitality far from ended there though. After running Mama Ingo back to her village we got upgraded to a room in a house, they made a fire for us, and then the cherry on the cake...they peeled our prawns for us! They even scooped out our pasta onto our plates when we displayed such ineptitude in doing it ourselves. These people really are incredibly kind, and absolutely didn't ask for anything in return. Its difficult to imagine similar levels of hospitality would be found in the UK if tables were turned. Our host, Richard, also highlighted how much of a pair of wetters we are by happily picking up red hot coals from the fire with his bare hands...absolute animal! We dozed off that night to the sound Richard and his wife gently humming God Save the Queen as a lullaby to their 7 month old twins.

In the morning we washed in the river then set off for the border. By taking a road unfairly dismissed on google maps as being much more minor than the dirt road to Ebolowa we managed to shave off some time and were at the border in just a few hours. Easy peasy! Now though to contend with the border crossing....often a long and difficult process in Africa. Not so here. A quick chat, a couple of stamps and we were out of Cameroon within half an hour! Thank you Cameroon, we couldn't have asked much more of you and your people!

*Gillian has flown to the Central African Republic to report on the situation as everybody who can is fleeing the other way. Great big balls!

Alfie is a Moron

(Putnam, Thursday 15th August) For many years now, Alfie has been pulling the wool over our eyes, presenting the facade of a highly intelligent man. It saddens me therefore to shoulder the burden of revealing the truth....that he is, in fact, a complete buffoon.

When Daisy and I left Rodders in his care in January, everything was just so. Over the course of 7 weeks and 10,000 miles it had evolved into the perfect overland machine. When we had a need, Rodders would solve it. There was a place for everything, and everything had its place. Alfie didn't bring all the things:

1) The coolbox: I almost could have understood if he'd packed in a rush and forgotten it, but when questioned he actually said "why would you need a coolbox?" The familiar association between camping and beer and meat is clearly not one he has made.

2) The chairs: If anyone's passing through Veranda and needs a nice sit down, there are two very comfortable camping chairs on Alfie's veranda. However, there are no camping chairs in the back of Rodders.

3) A big piece of plywood: This one is harder to explain to those not accustomed to overland Landrover travel. A large piece of wood creates an accessible space underneath it, on the oddly shaped floor for jerry cans, tools and spares, and a flat surface on top of it for bag, food etc. I have tried to no avail to make the best of this bad situation in terms of car packing. Alfie packed the rest of the gear into several equally miscellaneous boxes which makes it very difficult to make e.g. the cooking equipment more accessible. 

*I do appreciate, as Alfie has kindly pointed out, that my particular-ness over car packing may well be a sign of aging. 

5.2%...Naat!

TP:  Between discussing the optimal ageing process for Landrovers, James May describes the part of men's anatomy that tingles when they get excited about cars. I used to think this was silly, but as Rodders was inbound to my hotel in Douala mine was going like the clappers. As he came into view he once again looked more majestic than I remembered, this time coated in mud from doing what he does best on the sodden Mamfe road.

After hugs, kisses and much needed showers, Alfie, Gillian and I hit the town. There's little to report on "le Mediterranean" other than it's not African (more to come on African cuisine later no doubt). But we did drink some beers. Just two, (1.5 for Gillian, the reserved soul) but we did have them. And then due to the complete lack of atmosphere we asked a nice taxi man to take us elsewhere where we drank two more beers. And then, because this place was far too loud and dark, we pressed on to one more venue...a nearby terrace overlooking the streets of Douala. And there, we drank two more beers. We had therefore drank six beers each over the extended course of the evening (bar Gillian; you do the math). A reasonable, but not excessive number. What happened next however, was not characteristic of a man with just six lager beers in his belly. Alfie had made noises earlier about shaving his head, in the hope it would grow back before he had to once more be a serious person, and he was spurred on by his recent diet. 

Now seems the right moment to divulge Cameroon's little secret, of which we learnt the following day. The Cameroonian lager of choice ('33) clearly states that it's alcohol content is 5.2%. However, common knowledge, our headaches and Alfie's haircut all clearly state otherwise. Apparently its very difficult to control the brewing process so as to maintain a steady 5.2%, and since no one gives a shit, they just make it a lot stronger!

So back to our final bar. Alfie is spurred on and, god bless Africa, we found an on call barber at 2am on a Sunday. It turns out Alfie has an exceptionally round scull.

Out of office activated

APH: The route out of Nigeria was typical in many ways: wonderful hospitality courtesy of the Igben family, lots of persistent and clearly intoxicated policemen (total bribe count so far is 1 cerial bar) and gradually deteriorating roads. Thankfully I was not alone, Gillian Brock's excellent company easily making up for her occasionally erratic driving.

The Cameroon border was where the roads stopped and the fun really started. Rainy season is definitely not the best to travel through Ekok. Two days later, helped by a diet of coffee, cookies and the inspirational sounds of Now 39 we made it to Douala and the first rendez-vous of the trip. Swapping Gillian for Tom felt like being rather short-changed, particularly when he revealed a complete inability to pack a car properly and a weakness for forgetting which side of the road to drive on. 

The tarpaulin saga continues

Will, 09:47:

http://www.tatonka.com/Products/Tents/tarps-tarp-poles/Tarp-2-TC/2461

I want one of these.

They’ve drawn me in with the ‘cotton mix’ that will keep us in the shade as well as dry if it rains. What more can you ask for from a tarp? The only sticking point is it is about 100 big ones. Outrageous.

Will, 09:58:

Shall I buy a tarp? http://www.ddhammocks.com/product/ddtarp_coyote_brown_3x3

How likely is it to rain? It’s called a rainforest. I’m ordering now.

Will, 10:32:

I just spent 100 on a tarp. I couldn’t help myself. Somebody stop me. Camping equipment is my financial nemesis.

I’m getting overexcited.

T-1

You never really own a Defender. You merely look after it for the next expedition. And so, within a week of taking delivery of ‘Ramrod’, I was making plans to join this rabble of reprobates for the journey onwards to (or at least towards) Cape Town.

By plans, of course, I mean plugging random destinations into Google maps. Apparently it takes a mere 99 hours to drive from Abuja to Cape Town. The only caveats that are added are that the road passes through multiple countries and may involve a ferry crossing. All sounds pretty straightforward then.

Having assembled all the ingredients for such a trip (an understanding employer, an assortment of colourful visas, a bottle of whiskey and a pack of trademark white vests) it was time to bid farewell to the shining lights of Abuja and head out into the ‘real Africa’.

The complications seemed to have started before we did. With three days to go I found a large pool of red liquid under the front wheels. My first guess was road kill, but unfortunately it turned out to be power steering fluid. After 48 hours of patiently waiting for a new pump to be delivered from Kano we were all set to go…

An email exerpt from Day...how Landrover expeditions ruin lives.

"I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a tarp so much – but how the fuck are they so expensive. It’s just a piece of fabric.

Shall I do it. what are the chances that we will be camping in one place long enough for me to erect it. is it going to rain at night. Will we need shade during the days. This can solve all of the above. But for a price. If I won the lottery I would blow at least half of my jackpot on expedition equipment. The other half most likely on defenders. In fact I might buy a lottery ticket this week. I’m feeling lucky."

The birth of The Chopper

In April:  
Having trawled ebay for days, one majestic beast jumped out as being the one. Those who know defenders know they come in two sizes. The longer 110" wheelbase and the shorter 90". However, just like daddy bear and baby bear, neither is "just right". The obvious answer to this is to get a chop shop rebuild at 100" - the perfect size. So it was that on a boys' reunion weekend, still a little merry from a full speed night in the Lizard Lounge reliving the good old days that Guy Shepherd was convinced to drive to Cheddar to view the potential acquisition. This only took a little bit of lying about it being only 15 minutes away, which later made him angry.

The test drive was a casual affair, driving up and down a field and making what we thought were the appropriate sorts of noises and faces to make when buying a second hand car. Skillfully negotiating the line between asking no questions so looking like idiots, and asking stupid questions so looking like idiots I made my offer. A car full of us had gone for moral support so the test driving phase was a long and repetitive one...the highlight being Gary complaining about the brakes not stopping the car as he skidded up and down the man's field at 30mph creating furrows which we can only hope will prove useful for next year's crop. The other bidder was a no show so she was mine! Next to the naming; after several iterations including Spicy One-Ton, The ChopShop and Chop Suey we settled on The Chopper. In hindsight Mummy Bear might have been more suitable.

A rash CAPEX decision

In March:  
The tales of our first trip had stirred the souls of a few mates back in London, and as we sipped our beers and made plans with Alfie on one of his jaunts back to the UK it became clear that the wolf pack could be expanded enough to warrant another car. Spurred on by the beautiful roll cage-come-roofrack I'd been watching on eBay (I'd developed an unhealthy perversion for all things Landrover) with no Landrover to fix it to, I offered to Lewis, the first of our new recruits, that I would buy another Landy if he and others joining us shipped it out there. This was in part driven by my acute business sense spotting the potential for a little arbitrage profit, but more likely by the hole left in my life by Rodders. 

I didn't buy the roofrack, but with sights set on my new quest work productivity fell to the bright lights of the online marketplace.

Oh God...it's happening again!

In February: 
To be honest is was always going to happen again. The first thing we did when we arrived at Alfie's luxury pussy palace in Abuja and got wired back into the interweb was a google maps search. Directions from Abuja to Cape Town please Larry! Alfie clearly had higher ambitions for Rodders than being his Abuja run around and who are Will and I to deny him our vast experience as he takes the big fella south?

Excited talk over more than a few whiskeys clearly helped us to firm up the decision to continue. There were times when it might have been little more than a pipe dream over the following months, but spurred on by endless mornings on the tube and Alfie's persistent nature (he's the sort of guy who goes for a 100 mile jog for shits and giggles) we were soon firming up dates.

Look out Zucherburg!

So we seem to have finally succeeded in getting the blog linked to facebook with some technical witchcraft! So before we get started for real, time for some build up....