Zimbabweans of a certain age will remember the Renault R4 motorcar, more than likely as a Rixi Taxi on the streets of Harare.
Those who owned one will remember a delightful relationship with a faithful and quirky friend.
With an 850cc engine and 6V electrical system, it punched far above its weight in terms of off-road capability, comfort and touring performance.
In December 1983, my wife Pam and I decided to take a roadtrip from Harare to Sedgefield and Cape Town.
There was space not only for our two-year-old daughter and all her accoutrements but also, with the roof-rack, all our luggage for a month away from home.
The drive south from Beit Bridge was uneventful. The little R4 was quite happy to cruise along at 90km/h, occasionally blasted by the slipstream of passing Cressidas and Cortinas, Datsuns and Mercs.
It was approaching noon on New Year's Eve and we found ourselves heading south from Graaff-Reinet towards Willowmore. The distant Swartberg stood darkly above the shimmering mirage on the road ahead; the sky was silver in the heat.
Suddenly, an explosion in the engine bay rocked the car.As the bonnet rose,I heard the tinkle of broken glass and knew what had happened: the glass expansion bottle, part of the sealed cooling system, had exploded. I pulled over and climbed out. Before and behind us, the grey ribbon of road faded into the landscape.
Staring into the open engine bay, I heard the clicking crackle of the engine cooling down. Fragments of glass lay scattered about and steam floated up from the exposed pipework of the expansion bottle cap.
Soon, a bright yellow pickup approached, heading south. The driver, when I'd explained, pointed to a large bucket of water in the loadbed of the pickup.His optimism triggered a staccato of thoughts in my mind - what might I have in the car that could be of use? It could only have been my guardian angel that steered me to the picnic basket.
Zimbabweans may remember how a local instant coffee came in a brown, plastic pot with a yellow, screw-on, plastic lid.
Miraculously, the pot had not only the same size opening as the Renault's expansion bottle, but the respective caps also shared the same thread. I filled the pot with water and screwed it into the system; we were in business.Listening out for any change in engine note and keeping at a strict 40km/h I drove on, thinking I might find a garage in Willowmore to help fix the cooling system. We rolled into a petrol station at about 3pm.
When asked where I might find a mechanic, the petrol attendant pointed towards the hotel and bar, the only sign of life in the town, where New Year festivities were starting.
The first person I spoke to as I stepped into the bar turned out to be the manager and mechanic at the auto workshop. When I asked if he knew anything about Renaults, he threw his head back with a laugh. Yah, he had a flattened one in his yard. He led me out into the afternoon sun and we walked over.True to his word: it was a Renault, actually an R18 sedan. A much younger model than my early '70s R4 but a Renault nonetheless. I prised open the bonnet and there, like the Holy Grail, intact and shiny, sat the glass expansion bottle of the cooling system.
With surgically-delicate fingers I unscrewed the precious bottle from its mounting and pressed it to my cheek. The mechanic laughed and slapped my back, "Happy New Year, boet!"
• Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za and include a recent photograph of yourself for publication with the column...