I first met Hank in December 1992. At first glance he was not what you’d call a pretty boy, nor the sophisticated or reliable sort. Cream complexion, with just a couple of spare tyres, I relied more on recommendation than appearance when I decided to enter into a relationship with him. Choosing a seventeen-year-old wasn’t really ideal but his experience was beyond question. And he was solid, built like a tank! At the end of the day it came down to practicalities — finances that is. You see Hank was a Peugeot 404, a relic that would’ve been put out to pasture in his native land of France but in resource-poor Zimbabwe he was a sought after commodity. And while society tends to deign transport as female, Hank was definitely male — contrary at best and completely unreliable at worst.
In late December 1992 a forex transaction of Z$17,000 resulted in the genesis of many memorable adventures. His idiosyncrasies were boundless: a column shift; manoeuvring the gearbox into reverse; even getting into the car was an adventure — I had to unlock the passenger door then crawl over to the driver’s side; I measured my speed by noting the kilometre markers on the roadside simultaneously counting minutes on the clock (no speedometer cable available in Southern Africa); these were the many and varied quirks that endeared him to my friends and me. During the early days Hank showed no signs of his temperamental nature.
In those early days my quick and complete dependence on Hank and the freedom he offered rendered him dangerously elemental to life in Zimbabwe. He became one of those males you know you shouldn’t have in your life but you just can’t let go of, constantly tantalized with promises of better times to come, you know, when you tell yourself “If I hold on just a little longer, all will be okay” or when you fall for the advice of friends who assure you “he’s not that bad, just give him one more try”.
One weekend away in the remote Eastern Highlands, parking Hank for his much-needed siesta, I met three brothers walking. As they chatted about their eighteen siblings, their father and his three wives I had my first encounter with polygamy Hank and I, early days and still monogamous, made it back to Marondera a few days later without incident but maybe I should have heeded the sign.
Returning to home at the close of a weekend away was typically cinematic in Zimbabwe: vibrant yellow and green sunflowers, mauve and russet grasses, purple and white wild flowers carpeted the countryside. And in the wet season sunset transformed the sky into a vibrant canvas. The sun below slate grey clouds tinged molten red at their rim, a fireball dipping ever so slowly towards the earth’s surface to then plunge and transform the deeper grey clouds to gold. Lightning would then infuse the cloud with sheets of electric white followed by forks clawing their way to land. Listless white clouds in the east not yet drawn into this dramatic play hovered over a strip of denim blue sky which, as the sun and horizon met, would burst into the most vivid orange hues.
It was typically on the stretch heading home that Hank’s temperamental nature unfolded. Struggling to slide him into gear, I stopped at a service station. Hank was out of gear fluid. Quickly remedied. Yet Hank rebuffed easy reassurances as seated comfortably, ready to set off, he snubbed me again, refusing to start. Echoes of the litany of parts Hank needed rushed through my mind. Thankfully the mounting fears were swept aside as the station attendant assured me it was merely a short in the battery. A little putty would keep him going. Only half an hour from Marondera the thermostat light then suddenly illuminated. The attendant hadn’t checked the water. Scrounging supplies from friends, we gathered four litres, enough to limp home. So began the onslaught of illness and injuries to my dear, unreliable mate.
Hank, like me, was an international traveller. We made the long six-hour trek to Beira on the Mozambique coast twice and, as always, once he got going he was incredible. The speed with which I changed the occasional blown tyre impressed all and sundry, as well as my knack for turning him off. Just like intimate lovers, only I knew his subtle needs. Others, not savvy with his temperament, discovered that stilling Hank’s engine was not a simple process of turning the ignition off, rather an intricate process of timing.
Planning weekends away with Hank was a little like Russian roulette, a gamble layered with foreboding that friends willingly entered into. The stress and anxiety of will he start? what will go wrong this time? was akin to that of an emotionally cruel lover, the sort that made you feel a million dollars one day, yet questioned your very worth the next. In a single weekend Hank could throw me a lengthy inventory of woes from air in the fuel tank, a leaking tank, brushes in the starter motor and a flat tyre or two. But at the end of each day the adventures outweighed the pain.
It was Bruce, a swarthy-looking Shona male, who initiated me into the ways of mechanics, African style. Money for tools was transferred credit in lieu of future work. I soon learnt that this would always be on Bruce’s terms, and in African time, an ill defined arrangement that at some point left me finding another mechanic, feeling like a cheating lover secretly soliciting from elsewhere. Naively branding the white-owned business with a higher pedigree, I was soon set right. Cringing at their initial diagnosis, Z$1012 for a water pump, they then went on to say Hank had blown a head gasket, would need the radiator reconditioned, a new alternator and regulator, all for the bargain amount of Z$3500. Oh, and I’d probably blown a cylinder. A total of Z$10,000. I dissolved into tears. Hank, acquired less than six months earlier for Z$17000, was falling apart. Where was Dad when I needed him?
Ever resourceful, I sorted a “dad” alternative whose advise was to go back to Bruce. Heeding his advice I called TA Motors and told them to “hold off any work, I’ll sort out a currency exchange”. Cycling straight over I insisted they replace the dismantled parts. A little bewildered, the mechanic laconically reiterated Hank’s critical status. Not budging an inch I continued in my resolve, so he threw in the clincher: “My son will buy the car from you for Z$5000.” Scoffing I drove off and Hank, on cue, started beautifully (boy, he could put on a show when he wanted to) straight into Bruce’s loving arms. The scam confirmed (take Hank’s old but serviceable parts for reconditioning and sale or merely a ruse to shock me into parting with Hank for a pittance). Bruce replaced the water pump for a couple of hundred dollars. Many other woes befell Hank but the radiator, head gasket, alternator and regulator all outlasted my time with Hank.
With age Hank had started to lose his balance. As I drove him along the straight Mutare Road he developed a strange swaying in his body. Warned that the steering would go at some point, the next mechanic assured me, “It’s not urgent, he’s safe.” So I continued on until one trip when he began to veer erratically. Manoeuvring him to a stop I perused my options: leave Hank in the communal lands to opportunistic vultures or drive on with caution. I chose the latter. The final twenty kilometres to Marondera at a crawl in third gear was filled with trepidation but we eventually made it home. The final analysis confirmed that the triangle bushes, engine mounting bolts and brushes needed replacement. I should also prepare to replace the gearbox mounting. And something else fundamental to the steering was also on its way out. I groaned in disbelief. These were expensive items and I was on a development workers “allowance”. The price of love, of freedom.
Hank’s innumerable operations were aggravated by less than fastidious skill. I recall one time where my neighbour’s three-year-old daughter, ever helpful, put the key in the passenger lock (the only serviceable one) and tried to unlock the door. She looked at me in confusion as the key stuck, immovable. The lock beyond repair, Bruce came and broke in. Hank had come with a number of spare parts — anticipating the equivalent of plastic surgery and joint replacements, I suppose. I had a spare lock so it was effortlessly replaced. The following day in Harare I proceeded to unlock the door only to have the whole lock remove with the key. Shoddy workmanship? It required meeting yet another mechanic and interrupting yet another day! Hank was starting to require as much attention as a senile family member.
Christmas Eve, 1993, Marondera. Arriving home after work, the trunk overflowing with food for Christmas lunch and a few days in Vumba, presents for the neighbouring kids and an assortment of other Christmas treats, satiated from the rarity of a ‘big shop’, I disgorged myself from Hank’s comfortable embrace and went to unload the boot. But he had other ideas. AS it was nearing 5 pm on Christmas eve panic set in. Cycling off on my bike, a trusted reliable friend, I rushed to the mechanic who sent his “boy” to climb in through the back seat to dismantle the lock.
For Hank the smallest virus always seemed to morph into a major disease. A flat battery once resulted in me being sold the wrong size replacement, only to have it stolen from Hank the next day. A service station attendant, topping up the oil, did not replace the filter properly, causing oil to spill all over the starter motor which then refused to start. Bald tyres led to re-treads that resulted in problems with the wheel balance. I had the wheel alignment attended to, only to have the steering wheel go askew. Then the fuel system started to play up.
When a lovely Afrikaner mechanic who seemed to take pity on my female status, diagnosed over the phone “a problem with the fuel pump”, said he was unable to fix it himself so referred me to the only alternative — TA Motors, my archenemy. Out of necessity I swallowed my pride and stated what work was required, only to return to a bill far exceeding my expectations. Scanning the invoice I queried a series of items. Checking the glow plugs — they’d been done a week earlier by the auto electrician. Replacing a door handle for Z$132 — I insisted they put back the old one (that didn’t work). Replacing the radiator cap for a further Z$130 — the other seemed to be working fine, thank you very much! I refused to pay, returning later to a bill of Z$85. At that point I told the young man about the previous year’s saga, he replied, “We are a Christian organization now.”
Hank was a hothead and in the summer disliked brief stops. He needed time to cool down. My weapon in this war impressed others no end — the “screwdriver on the solenoid” trick. When the dreaded replacement of the solenoid, quoted at Z$800, arrived for a mere Z$450, I was ridiculously relieved, but even this was not a straightforward affair. TA Motors — the sole Peugeot distributor in town — sold the part ordered to someone else as I stood at the counter. “Oh, we’ll get another in a couple of days,” was their response — African time. The solenoid was finally fitted. Ahh, but remember, this is Hank, this is Africa. There was a whirring sound. Diagnosis — an ill-fitting solenoid. Hank began to resemble the childhood song where the ankle bone is connected to the shin bone, the shin bone is connected to the thigh bone … and it didn’t stop there. New ball joints for the right wheel was the next surgery required. The auto electrician had to replace the second set of bushes after just five weeks — “Zimbabwean” quality. And when the new glow plug “popped” out after a repair, it was not his fault of course. Arrgh!
Two years after we met, loaded with all my belongings for the shift to Harare, Hank refused to start. The only mechanic I could get hold said the needed part wasn’t available in Southern Africa. “You’d best park the car on a hill and leave it”. I was beginning to consider that it was time for us to part but as a loyal lover who took time to discard those who didn’t shape up, I was committed for a little longer. In the end it was ‘the switch’, a doable job so the same afternoon Hank took me and my belongings to Harare. A week later we made the 440km journey to Bulawayo. But of course, yes, you know, the next day he was immovable. He’d sprung a leak in the fuel tank. The Matabeland mechanic told me he wasn’t sure he could get the parts. “404s are becoming obsolete, you know.”
Now living in Harare, a car was a luxury I could no longer afford and the litany of woes was endless. By 1994 in AIDS riddled Zimbabwe I came to the conclusion that Hank was HIV+, if not suffering from full-blown AIDS. At one point he was costing an average of Z$1000 per month, an astronomical amount given my local salary was little more. I advertised Hank for $15000 (although I’d paid Z$17,000 only two years earlier the Zimbabwean dollar had devalued considerably). A lovely retired Shona man swapped $13500 for Hank. While Hank was the source of much anguish, despite his chronic illnesses and interminable frustrations, Hank transported me far and wide, teaching me much about Zimbabwe, and life, and a bit like a man, eventually gave what I wanted.
