Farming Life Starting in Africa

The show playing was the local version of "Prison Break." A Black actor playing the prisoner Sucre was introducing the various characters in the prison to his Arab cellmate, Michael.

The two chatted in Arabic with an exaggerated vibrato, the "buzzing" of the vibrato sounding like a bee's, and when they spoke quickly, it sounded like they had a motor in their mouths. It was surreal.

Rosen went back to his room, turned on his computer, and started browsing local news.

I was looking at it when my phone vibrated.

Caller ID: Zhuo Weixi.

Rosen answered the phone, and an excited voice came from the other end, "Brother Rosen, we're having a bonfire party at the factory tomorrow night, wanna come join us?"

"Huh?" Rosen leaned back in his computer chair, crossed his legs, and said, "Your brother won't welcome me. He looks at me like I'm a thief."

"It's alright," Zhuo Weixi said casually. "I organized this party; it's none of his business. I can invite whoever I want."

Rosen laughed: "Haha, okay then. I'll come over tomorrow after I'm done with my work."

"What have you been busy with lately?" Zhuo Weixi asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"Your brother bought my car, so I need to get a new one too."

He always felt uneasy going out without a safe car. The Bigfoot Patrick had already driven it back for him when he went to the 69 Supermarket in Qianbida.

But he always felt that the car wasn't sturdy enough; compared to the previous Hummer, it was far inferior.

He can't just go out and drive a tank; that would be too absurd.

He was thinking of using a BJ40 that had been used many times as a frame to modify into a sturdy armored vehicle. The chassis was okay, but the rest would have to be completely disassembled and rebuilt from scratch.

Zhuo Weixi laughed on the other end of the phone, "Do all you men like cars? My brother is the same, he can't resist a nice car."

"I also like girls with unique temperaments," Rosen said without batting an eye.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a soft chuckle: "Alright, alright, stop joking. See you tomorrow, Sen-ge."

"See you tomorrow."

The next morning, before the sun had even risen much and the sky was just beginning to lighten, a clanging sound began to echo in the yard.

Patrick has already started work. The kid is quite enthusiastic about his job; he used a small crane to pull out the BJ40 that was piled up in the corner—the car was covered in rust, dusty and gray, looking like it had been dug out of a garbage dump.

Patrick rinsed the area with a hose, then scrubbed it with a brush. Rust and dust mixed with the water, creating a muddy mess on the ground.

The car is basically just a frame. The valuable parts—engine, gearbox, driveshaft—had long been dismantled and sold off to Rosen in batches.

Rosen generally doesn't buy whole cars. If he did, those guys would specifically target unlucky newcomers to Africa—those newly bought used cars, as soon as they dared to leave his sight, would be coming to Rosen within a few days.

Rosen didn't want to turn his garbage dump into a hub for selling stolen goods; that would only bring him trouble.

The poor folks here are shrewd. They know that whole cars aren't worth much, so they dismantle them into parts to sell for a few more coins. But dismantling a car is hard work, thankless, and you only get scrap metal.

Just as I was busy, the sound of engines came from outside the gate. A blue Great Wall Cannon and a Renault Classic drove in, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Miao Feng and Ma Xiaolai were there; they weren't going to miss this opportunity to take advantage. Even if Rosen just helped fix the car—there were no dealerships here, so you had to repair it yourself, and whether you could keep driving it depended entirely on fate.

Upon seeing the newcomer, Rosen opened the skylight in the second-floor workshop and waved to Patrick. The young man nimbly climbed onto the crane and, following Rosen's instructions, hoisted out the prepared equipment from the second-floor workshop one by one. Engines, suspension kits, bulletproof steel plates—each item was lowered down.

Ma Xiao stood to the side, his eyes wide with amazement. The brand-new engine parts gleamed metallically in the morning light, and he looked on with longing. He patted Miao Feng beside him and asked, "You mean he made all of these himself?"

Miao Feng gave him a chuckle and said, "What are you thinking? Building engines in Africa? Are you out of your mind? I bet he just found some used parts abroad and modified them himself."

Ma Xiao wasn't bothered by the ridicule; instead, he was even more envious. He clicked his tongue and said, "He actually sold that Hummer, wow. That car is so exhilarating to drive, so powerful and stable, like driving a tank. I wish I had one; I'd be unbeatable on the street."

Miao Feng jokingly said, "Hehe, you're just trying to save up for baby formula, you don't deserve such a dream. Save up the baby formula money first before you dream."

Miao Feng can actually repair cars. As a master's student in information engineering, he was forced to learn many skills when he went to Africa.

Cars breaking down on the road is a common occurrence; with these terrible road conditions, they'll break down every few days. If he doesn't know any simple repairs, he'll suffer a lot, completely helpless.

After everything was unloaded, Rosen came over and measured the windows and doors of their two vehicles. Then he took two tool bags from the tool shed and tossed them to them.

"You guys take apart the car doors and windshield yourselves." Rosen dusted off his hands. "Help me assemble the car today."

They couldn't make many modifications to their cars, since the original design was what it was.

It's not like they're building a new car. He simply sandwiched a 10mm layer of high-strength armor steel between the doors, and replaced all the windows and windshield with bulletproof ones. It's that simple and brutal.

But this is already quite outrageous. Four doors and six panes of glass add almost 700 kilograms to the car's weight. If any other modifications are made, their small-displacement engine definitely won't be able to handle it, and it won't even be able to run.

If Rosen doesn't help them replace the suspension and braking systems, they'll wreck the car in no time.

As for the issue of shortened engine life after they floor the accelerator, that's something to consider only if they survive the trouble. Being alive is more important than anything else; an engine can be repaired, but if you're dead, you lose everything.

The group of people were busy all day long.

Rosen pounced on the BJ40, completely transforming it beyond recognition. While not as outrageous as his Bigfoot, it was still quite astonishing.

The chassis was raised by 10 inches, and the wheels were replaced with 37-inch rims, equipped with all-terrain military run-flat tires—these things can still run for dozens of kilometers even if the tires are punctured, enough for him to escape.

Roof spotlights, crash bars, snorkels, winches—these miscellaneous accessories were installed one by one. The vehicle kept getting bigger and bigger, eventually reaching a length of 5.1 meters and a width of 2.1 meters.