Land Rover Complexities

I suppose everyone is inclined to be biased one way or another, and even though most journalists do strive to be objective in their assessments or comments, their unflinching or romantic loyalties or prejudices are sometimes most obvious.

In the Jan.2011 issue of South African Country Life there is an interesting “crit” on the new “Landy” Defender 110.

The article states: there is no cruising about in the latest Defender – it demands that you’re fully and dramatically engaged in the driving experience at all times. Everything about this vehicle feels designed to make you suffer for the privilege of being at the driving helm of such an automotive giant, but that in defence of the Defender (I’m not trying to be punny), the vehicle must be loved because it has changed so little in the past 60 years. It sounded like the best of “British” to me. I suppose some folk just dig tradition – or antiques. However we all love to indulge our passions, if we can afford to – don’t we?

As the facts were spun out in this article, simply imploring the reader to accept the idiosyncrasies or quirks of this quaint icon, which is actually rather unfashionable, or just plain eccentric, I could only but be reminded of one of my own Landy experiences, which incidentally vindicates the “crit”.

Some years ago I was involved in a regular weekend drink, eat, and laugh syndicate. What we really had in common with one another was not only a particular brand of humour, but also food, smooth dry red wine, Klippies and Coke, cheap sweet white plonk, and of course – beer. A “potjie” of delicious curry, stew or oxtail usually simmered close by during the winter months, as we determinedly mellowed to the occasion. However we did actually enjoy one another too.

One of the gang owned an ancient petrol fuelled long wheel base “Landy” station wagon, with Impala horns rakishly mounted at the front end of the bonnet above the radiator. This must have been the most decrepit worn out semblance of a rattle-trap wreck, and the most uncomfortable journey spoiler on wheels.

The owner was a fanatical “ Landy” freak. He was also a genuine British Colonial Kenyan – typically “Out of Africa”, and served with the Kenya African Rifles Regiment, and then eventually as an SAS member of the Commonwealth Anti-Terrorist Forces seconded to Malaysia.

He was selected to escort Princess Margaret of Great Britain during a visit with her sister Princess Elizabeth to the famous Treetops Hotel in Kenya during the early 50’s. He was sent with his company to attend the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth in England, as a representative of the Kenya African Rifles.

He was also the chief (I hung them six at a time) hangman in Kenya during the Mau-Mau rebellion, and reputedly hunted terrorists in the jungles on the slopes of Mount Kenya. He actually shot to death Komathe, the notorious Mau-Mau warlord, (or so the legend maintains.)

He was of course a most entertaining raconteur, dressed in a sarong (and nothing else) around his middle, with a floppy hat on his head….Tourists simply loved to party with him.

One weekend on a sweltering Sunday, it was suddenly mooted that we load the usual picnic trappings into the “old lady”, and head into the forest behind Sabie, to a breezy mountain spot to picnic, with a good view of the beautiful Sabie Valley below us.

After bouncing around, in 3^rd gear low ratio, suddenly the engine died. At that stage, none of us was really in any state to be able to sensibly diagnose what had convinced the “old cow” to become temperamental. We decided to carry on without a care in the world. The owner proclaimed that his “faithful old lady” would just never let him down. After all with a “Landy”, things couldn’t be that serious.

At this stage the battery had become too tired to swing the engine, and so we decided to assist the “old lady” to roll along and get the engine to turn. It was of course to no avail, as “old ladies” just don’t roll. Eventually however, we did manage to land her in a ditch – backwards. By this time the ice, the beers, and the Coke were all consumed, and we were wondering what to do next.

Eventually one of the brighter sparks decided to have a “tinker”, to try and find out what was actually wrong, only to discover that the distributor had disintegrated -  from the inside; which of course meant that we were facing a different kind of challenge. Here we were, illegally on a remote forest mountain track, on a Sunday afternoon, where nobody knew about us, with not even a remote chance of a helping hand. In the meantime, the afternoon shadows were growing longer and longer as the day began to fade. It then dawned on us that we were actually in a bit of a pickle.

I had luckily brought my cell phone with me on the trip, and after racking my brains managed to remember a friend’s number. I called him – he answered ! He responded to our “frantic” call for help !

As passionate as the “Landy” owner’s love of “old ladies” was, just so passionate was our saviour’s love of Unimogs, and…German culture. Well, of course the inevitable teasing and sledging soon got under way.

Eventually we managed to hitch the “old lady” to the Unimog and started towing. What amused me was that the  “Landy” could not even free-wheel down the steepest incline – the handbrake off I promise – and had to be towed the whole way home.

The owner and his wife lived in a forest company village with a number of other families nearby, and all the neighbours who had heard about the demise of the “old lady”, had come out to jeer/cheer the rescue attempt. Everyone knew of the eternal and interminable but passionate affair between the owner and his dearly beloved.

The owner’s acute embarrassment at having to be rescued and unceremoniously dragged home by a Unimog was most obvious; he displayed the brightest, pinkest hue around his jowls, in startling contrast to his ash grey mop of hair. He was of course the perfect study of the stiff upper lip Colonial Duke who could never be seen to flinch even in the face of the greatest adversity, as he studiously guided the “old lady” home.

On reflection I do believe it was the “Landy” that brought the best of British out of him. It must have been eternally stalking his psyche, and needed air by demanding attention through the association of something familiarly and superiorly British. Unfortunately he was of a dying breed, and there are fewer and fewer original Colonials left.

With all the excitement, the safe arrival was of course an excuse for another celebration. More booze was procured forthwith; a fire was lit in the boma; another one in the griddle; and it wasn’t long before the tantalizing aroma of sizzling flesh lured even the most reticent of neighbours out for the evening, and even though some of us had to work on the morrow, the party extended into the early hours.

A group of revelers was sitting on a bench near the boma fire, when the legs suddenly collapsed, and the whole gang landed on their backs in the grass awash with their drinks !

I guess the best of British will always bounce awkwardly and traditionally along with a stiff upper lip in a “Landy”.