One very early September morning in 2010, we left Upington in the dark and headed up the N14. The sun was just peering over the horizon as we hit that long, famously straight stretch of tar between Upington and Olifantshoek — the kind of road that makes you feel like you're driving on a ruler. 

We swung through Kathu, where the enormous truck number 25 and its loader stand in their permanent open-air encampment, abandoned to the elements like two very large children who have been sent to their room indefinitely. Whatever they did, it must have been spectacular. 

We refuelled and turned north toward McCarthy's Rest, passing through Hotazel — a town whose name, in September, requires no explanation. 

At the border we glided through with the usual choreography: pay your dues, stamp your passport, smile at the right people. Then on to Tsabong for a brief stop before hitting the A20 east toward Kang, where we planned to spend the night. 

At Khakhea, someone — and I won't say who, but it was me — decided to take the shortcut on the gravel road. Big mistake. The corrugations were so severe that the vehicle shook like a tumble dryer with a brick in it. Every bolt, screw, and carefully assembled component vibrated at frequencies nature never intended. Twice we heard a tremendous bang from underneath the car. Twice we stopped, got out, crouched down, peered underneath, found nothing obviously wrong, shrugged, and continued. This, in hindsight, was optimistic. 

After checking into Kalahari Rest Stop that evening, I slid under the car with a flashlight for a proper investigation. And there it was: the left control arm to the front differential — the bolt that held the entire arrangement together — had gone completely AWOL. Not only that, but all the rattling had broken one side of the bracket clean off. We absorbed this information. We had a drink and dinner. We went to bed. 

Early the next morning we followed the A2 towards Ghanzi. Over fuel and breakfast, I casually enquired whether there might be an engineering shop nearby — the way one does when one is trying not to sound as worried as one actually is. 

After several pointed conversations, I found myself at Ghanzi Panelbeaters, explaining my situation to Ronnie, the owner. Ronnie summoned one of his men to have a look. The verdict was swift: "Ronnie must call Kempton."Kempton, it emerged, was the man. The legend. The alpha and omega of welding in Ghanzi. Every person consulted on the matter independently confirmed it: if it needed fixing, Kempton was the one to fix it. We settled in to wait for Superman. 

While we waited for Superman to arrive, a small Chana pickup appeared, driven by a large Chinese gentleman, the back loaded with various goods that Ronnie might find useful. What followed was a magnificent barter session conducted entirely in English — Ronnie, of Indian descent, and his Chinese counterpart, each in their own wonderfully distinct accent, negotiating with great seriousness over nuts, bolts and whatever else Ronnie needed.I stood watching and thought: somehow, the ancient Silk Road has made a wrong turn, continued south for several thousand kilometres, and ended up here in Ghanzi. There are worse places to end up. 

At long last, Kempton arrived. His car was running on three cylinders. Someone asked what was wrong with it. Kempton thought the head gasket had gone somewhere. He did not seem especially troubled by this. A man who fixes everyone else's vehicles, apparently, operates on a slightly different maintenance schedule for his own. 

Kempton crouched down and looked at my bracket with the unhurried calm of a man who has seen far worse before breakfast. He took some measurements, nodded to himself, and disappeared to the scrapyard to find a suitable piece of metal. He returned with his material, placed it on the ground, put one foot — in a flip-flop — on top of it to hold it steady, and proceeded to grind it to the correct length. Sparks flew in all directions. The flip-flop survived. Kempton seemed unsurprised by both outcomes. He bored, he welded, he sourced a bolt from somewhere in the depths of the yard. Thirty minutes later, he straightened up, dusted himself off, and declared the job done. 

We paid what needed to be paid. Kempton assured us it would not break again. We thanked him with genuine warmth and drove off into the Botswana morning. 

It did break again. But to Kempton's credit, it waited until we were considerably deeper into the tour before doing so. In the circumstances, that felt like a promise at least partially kept.

Happy travelling. — Peter Rau