I spent my first hour in Zimbabwe in a seat so uncomfortably close to the seat in front of it that I would've turned noseless like Voldemort if the driver hit the brakes unexpectedly. The window next to my seat was half-covered up with a sticker. The best seats on the truck were occupied by a cooler and some luggage. It was my first ride on the truck that would bring me from Victoria Falls to Cape Town. By the end of that road trip, I would be fearing for my life every time I got on.

Our truck's name was Madiba. Most of the trucks that take tourists on a road trip through Southern Africa have a name, so you won't get into the wrong one because you forgot the numbers on the license plate; Names are much easier to remember. I won't forget the name Madiba for the rest of my life. Apparently, our truck was named after Nelson Mandela, who was nicknamed Madiba (I did not know this until I was on the plane back home). Mandela left us all years ago and the truck that was named after him seemed ready to do the same. We were barely on our way to Cape Town when Madiba started falling apart.

Madiba's seats were the first thing that betrayed the truck's approaching departure from this planet. Some people could feel the springs poke into their legs, others had reclined their seats and couldn't get them into an upright position anymore. I was lucky enough to claim seats that were fine. No one else wanted to sit there anyway, because the illogical seat plan meant that there was no legroom there, while other seats had legroom to spare. I was happy with my seat though. It didn't poke me in the butt, it didn't slam back at random moments, and the lack of legroom meant I was seen as a selfless saint for voluntarily sitting there almost every day.

We made it out of Zimbabwe without any issues. We got through Botswana just fine. But we did notice a crack in the floor before we reached Namibia. It was a warning for what was to come. Madiba was an old, tired truck and the Namibian roads ahead of us promised nothing but trouble.

Namibia and infrastructure have a weird relationship. There are very few asphalt roads. Namibia can afford asphalt roads, but won't spend money on them. One of the reasons, my tour guide told me, is that private businesses are in charge of construction and maintenance of the roads and the Namibian government "can't just take over these tasks". The second reason is that the government thinks that asphalt roads will damage the ecosystems of Namibia's deserts. As a result, every tourist visiting Namibia gets treated to an "African free massage": The rocky dirt roads full of potholes will shake you until your bones turn to jelly. Madiba, nearing the end of its life, was not fit for a challenge of this size.

It started in the north of Namibia. The crack in the floor grew. Madiba had to take us on a game drive through Etosha National Park, where every bit of the truck was under constant strain. The truck made so much noise, peeping, screeching, that I expected Madiba would move on to the afterlife right then and there. But Madiba's guardian angel was doing their job very well: The only thing that didn't make it out of Etosha was the door handle.

I wasn't too worried about Madiba when we arrived in Swakopmund. We'd made it to the halfway mark. We'd fixed the door handle (although it kept falling off and we almost lost it a couple of times). When it fell off again, our tour guide would just open the door from the outside. We were fine. Madiba was fine. Everything was fine.

Everything was far from fine less than two days after we left Swakopmund. The African free massage intensified. Madiba peeped and groaned every second of the trip now. And then it all went wrong on our way to the Sossusvlei. Bits and pieces broke off. Tanks started leaking. Dust filled the air inside the truck. We couldn't assess the full damage until we'd made it out of Namib-Naukluft National Park. When the dust settled, we saw we'd been lucky to make it out at all. The driver's windshield had cracked. The radiator was leaking. The small iron ladder under the door had broken off on one side. The chainlink of the cage that held our cooking supplies was gone. One of the diesel tanks was dripping fuel at an alarming rate...


We moved on as if nothing had happened. One family traveling in our group had brought duct tape for emergencies. Soon enough, Madiba was covered in duct tape bandaids. The shaking, creaking and groaning worsened. Blackish goo spread over the windows on Madiba's right side; The leaked diesel was sprayed all over the truck. Those windows had to remain closed, which was horrible in the middle of Namibia with no AC on board. And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, the situation escalated.

A loud bang echoed through the truck. People shouted. A dark object flew past my window. Madiba abruptly skidded to a halt. The African free massage was suddenly over. Chaos reigned. People who'd sat in the front came rushing to the back. The windshield had cracked.
What had happened was absurd. The roof hatch on the driver's cabin had been locked shut with a tree branch. I am not joking. This branch had become so relaxed from all the African free massages that it slipped away, unlocking the hatch, which then flew off and crashed into our windshield. The window didn't shatter, thank god, or people would have been scarred for life, literally. Eyes could have been lost, brains could have been damaged. And our tour guide wanted to drive on as if nothing had happened. We protested, almost planned a mutiny. Then one of the other tourists undermined our position by saying: "He just wants to stick to his schedule. He has a schedule to follow today, you know!"
"Well, I have a schedule for my life," I said. "And dying at 23 doesn't fit into that schedule." That's the last thing that was said about the incident. The duct tape was pulled out, a mattress was taken out of the back of the truck, and Madiba was fixed up as far as that was possible in that situation.


After crossing the border into South Africa, Madiba's cracked windshield was covered up with cardboard. The diesel tank was fixed. We had no more African free massages ahead of us. Still, I didn't believe we'd make it to Cape Town - at least not with Madiba for transport. I didn't feel safe anymore. Everything hurt from sitting in a cramped, dusty space for days on end. Even on asphalt, Madiba didn't make a good impression anymore. I couldn't believe it when I finally saw Table Mountain on the horizon after three long weeks. I'd never experienced such a relief in my life.

The story still isn't over though. Madiba had to bring us to the airport after we'd spent some time in Cape Town. While we were still out and about, our tour guide got a phone call from Namibia: another truck had broken down. Madiba was needed to rescue the stranded tourists. This meant we were dropped off at the airport hours earlier than the original schedule had said. I couldn't help but laugh when I heard that these poor tourists in Namibia were waiting for Madiba to rescue them. It was so sad. On the way over to the airport, we lost the door handle again. One of the seats lost its headrest. Every meter was a challenge for this poor old truck, but that didn't matter apparently. In fact, Madiba is still out there now, road tripping with a bunch of tourists who are probably afraid for their lives. So if you ever find yourself in Southern Africa, ready to get on a truck with the name Madiba, I have one piece of advice for you: RUN.