iPhone Lifeproof Case, part 2

At work on a recent volunteer project in Maasailand.

After using the Lifeproof Case for iPhone 4S for over a month of travels—from the cold, wet climes of England and Scotland, to the hot, dusty world of Kenya's South Rift Valley (see Part 1)—the jury is in: two thumbs-up.

The iPhone is an indispensible tool for our work: I use it increasingly for daily snapshots for our Flickr and social media feeds; it's my only GPS tool; the currency calculator and various language dictionaries are fantastic for travel; and oh yes, it's a global phone, too (Verizon Wireless in the U.S. will unlock your iPhone, and you can purchase local micro-SIMs in most major destinations; I just find the local Apple network dealer and head to the larger shops where I target the young, hip sales staff—in Kenya it took 15 minutes to buy and set up an iPhone SIM and have data and voice for a month for $20).

The Lifeproof Case is the best case I've used so far, including the Otterbox and a Sea to Summit soft case, which really isn't suited to daily use. Minor gripes are that you have to use the Apple power cord only (I prefer the retractable cords from Ziplink) and the dongle for the headphones jack is a bit of a pain and quite prone to disappearing into the maw of my rucksack. Major gripe is that you will probably have to test 2-3 to get one that fits right and doesn't have a wobbly, useless plastic cover on the front.

I didn't test the 3 meter drop height, but I did drop the phone a couple times onto the talc-like dirt of the Rift Valley floor and was very grateful for the dustproof membranes and glass protecting the speaker and lenses.

 Oops. Dropping an expensive iPhone isn't so painful with the Lifeproof.

The Lifeproof Case is $80 but worth every penny to protect an expensive tool. Lifeproof.com

Forbidden Fruit: The Toyota Hilux

Sigh . . . 

That’s always my first reaction when I start the three-liter, four-cylinder turbodiesel of a world-market Toyota Hilux pickup. Why, oh why, can’t we have this 27-mpg engine in our Tacomas in the U.S.? For that matter, why can’t we simply have the Hilux? Is our country not deserving of the fully ruggedized version of Toyota’s smaller pickup? The Hilux’s fully boxed chassis seems to sneer at the Tacoma, which makes do with open-channel frame sections under the bed. And that bed—it’s not just got a plastic liner, it is plastic, apparently squeezed from some giant tube rather than stamped and spot-welded as God intended a truck bed should be. One suspects Toyota engineers think the heaviest things Americans carry are flat-screen TVs or pallets of Costco toilet paper, while real working trucks in Africa don’t go anywhere without 15 Zulus in the back, or a pedestal-mounted .50-caliber BMG, or both. 

The question is . . . could they be right? 

I ruminated on the subject while carrying, not 15 Zulus, but 11 Maasai plus a fresh rolled-up cowhide down a murram road deep in the South Rift Valley. A murram (or laterite) road is a brilliant concept invented by . . . someone, and consists essentially of mixed clay and gravel over a bed of large sharp-edged stones. Unfortunately the gravel soon wears away, leaving just clay and sharp-edged stones. When dry it’s like driving on endless corrugations—except there’s no “magic” speed because there’s no symmetry to the ridges—and when wet it turns to grease, spitting piki-piki motorbikes and four-ton trucks into the ditch with equal facility. The only redeeming feature of this torturous base matrix is that it’s durable—like saying, “The food is terrible but the portions are huge.” 

Where was I? Oh, right—as I looked out over the hood scoop of the Hilux (Tacomas get ghastly fake hood scoops; the Hilux gets a real one that feeds the intercooler), I pondered what other differences there were—as well as if and how much those differences really matter. The question is far from academic, since Roseann and I just bought a 2012 Tacoma and are about to mount a lightweight-but-still-800-pound-plus camper in its extruded bed.

Hood scoop on the Hilux feeds the turbodiesel's intercooler.

On an empirical basis there seems little to choose between the two trucks. Wheelbases and overall lengths overlap depending on cab and bed configuration. Width is exactly the same at 72.2 inches. Even curb weights aren’t all that different. But when you start comparing rated capacities, priorities become obvious. The U.S. Tacoma, with its powerful petrol V6, actually boasts the higher towing capacity (6,400 pounds) by almost 1,000 pounds—presumably reflecting the American fondness for powerboats, toy-haulers, etc. But payload—what the truck can actually carry in its bed and cab—is another story. The Tacoma’s highest available 1,415-pound capacity pales before the heaviest-duty Australian Hilux, which can tote over twice that. Even the wimpiest UK-spec Hilux is rated for 1,900 pounds. This is without doubt tied directly to that frame construction. The longest bed option on the Tacoma is 73 inches; on the Hilux it’s 91—over seven and a half feet. 

Yet in other areas there’s less distinction. Toyota retained a solid front axle on its four-wheel-drive Hiluxes for several years after the U.S. truck got independent front suspension, thus generating the first of many howls of outrage from serious truck users in the U.S. regarding the pansification of our model. But now the Hilux is equipped with an independent double-A-arm/coil-spring front end identical to the Tacoma’s, so Toyota must be satisfied that IFS can hold up to developing-world abuse.

Hilux on the left; Tacoma on the right. No more whining about solid axles on Hiluxes. The two share other components as well. They use the same sturdy semi-floating, 30-spline rear axle and an eight-inch differential with reinforced bearing caps and a strengthened pinion shaft. It’s strong enough to handle the 304 horsepower produced by the TRD-supercharged 4.0 petrol V6 without voiding Toyota’s warranty. Transmissions are also shared. I’ve heard there are minor differences in the transfer cases, but I wonder if it might be simply in the gearing (still checking on that one). Our hired Hilux had the same shift-on-the-fly electronic-disconnect front differential as our Tacoma. 

One commonly held assumption is that the suspension on the Tacoma was optimized for ride comfort for us soft, fat Americans, while the Hilux concentrates on load-carrying prowess. Well . . . not necessarily. The ride on our own Tacoma—a V6 SR5 4x4 Access Cab with steel wheels and stock street tires we’ll soon change—is hilariously, maddeningly, absurdly stiff. It’s notably stiffer than the Old Man Emu leaf-spring setup on my FJ40. We’re looking forward to adding the camper and a winch and bumper just to knock some of the stuffing out of it. Meanwhile our hired Kenyan Hilux boasts a compliant, well-controlled ride whether empty or full of spear-toting Morani. What’s up with that? How can the truck rated to carry less weight ride worse than the “work” truck? 

The Kenyan Hilux at rest in the dusty Rift Valley.

Off-pavement ability is almost certainly a wash between the two, although the lack of compliance on our Tacoma definitely hurts it (we’ll be installing new shocks and an ARB rear locker soon, after the camper is on). We had the Hilux up in some of Kenya’s infamous black cotton soil for a few days. Approximately .005 millimeters of rain—it did nothing more than polka-dot the dust on the truck—was enough to turn the tracks into physics-defying surfaces utterly devoid of traction. Articulation, gearing, lockers, traction control—nothing really helps in that stuff. Proper mud tires will get you perhaps ten feet farther down the road than ordinary street tread. With that said, the Hilux’s turbodiesel responded gallantly to bursts of throttle when I had to surf through sections yawing thirty degrees one way and the other off the desired direction of travel. The Tacoma’s V6 would have been no handicap in the same situation (aside from drinking 40 percent more fuel). 

What about lesser differences? Styling is a personal matter, and has scant impact on performance aside from details such as the approach angle. The Hilux—especially the reworked 2012 model—is notably the sleeker of the two, especially in front, where the Tacoma’s in-your-face butchness is hard to miss. However, both trucks sport plastic-coated front bumpers useless for anything but collecting bugs; there’s not a spot on either that would take a Hi-Lift. Another draw.

Butch in appearance, but nowhere for a Hi-Lift to grab. Open the door and climb behind the wheel. If you’re expecting the Hilux to have an interior that can be sloshed out with a bucket of Zambezi River water, you’ll be disappointed—it’s just as posh and plasticky as the Tacoma. Dash styling of the pair is . . . different. Not distinctive, and neither is more logical or legible, just different, in a way that again brings home the question of why Toyota spends millions of dollars producing two vehicles so similar to each other.

Take away the South Rift dust and swap the steering wheel over . . . . . . and there's little to choose between the interiors. So. Besides the major disappointment regarding engine availability, the biggest remaining issues are the differences in the rear frame area and the plastic bed. For an expert opinion I turned to the finest Toyota mechanic I know, Bill Lee. He runs a shop in Silver City, New Mexico, has been into the guts of hundreds of Lands Cruisers and pickups, and has no problem pointing out flaws as well as strengths in Toyota products. He actually laughed when I expressed my doubts. “Quit worrying,” was his reply. “It’s more than strong enough. It’s got eight crossmembers and plenty of steel. And I drilled through a bed some time ago to mount some accessories for a customer—it’s incredibly tough fiber-reinforced material—and it will never, ever rust.” Bill also pointed out that chassis design in U.S.-market vehicles is as oriented toward providing crush zones during a major collision as it is toward outright rigidity—and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

There is actually a much bigger question to be asked, and that is how Toyota will address the recent stiff competition in the global mid-size truck category. Given its years-long position at the top of the sales heap, the company’s hesitation to mess with success is understandable, but the Hilux is by any measure no longer the technological leader in the field. The world-market Ford Ranger recently benefitted from an extensive and very stylish redesign, and is available with a 3.2-liter turbodiesel that produces 197 horsepower and 347 foot-pounds of torque (at 1,500 rpm), compared to Toyota’s 3.0 with 160 horsepower and 252 foot-pounds. The Ranger’s braked towing capacity is a superb 3,350 kg—near enough double Toyota’s 1,840 kg rating. The Ranger also boasts an astounding 800mm (31-inch) fording depth, by far the highest I’ve seen on any production vehicle this side of a Unimog. The well-respected Volkswagen Amarok’s tiny 2.0 turbodiesel also outclasses Toyota’s engine, as does the 2.5 in the Nissan Navara. Mazda, Mitsubishi—all these companies are not just nipping at Toyota’s heels, but running alongside snapping at the jugular.

The sleek, powerful, and capable Ford Ranger 3.2. Rumors are floating here and there that Toyota is planning to combine the Hilux and Tacoma into a single platform next redesign (probably 2015). If true, it will be interesting to see if the company sways either direction: developing-world brawn or developed-world sophistication. I’ll be watching closely. In the meantime, I’ve decided to relax and enjoy our new Tacoma when we get home, and see just how well it holds up as a self-contained expedition vehicle. 

But at the moment, I have 11 Maasai to take home back up that murram road. 

I turn the key in the Hilux. 

Sigh . . .

 The Hilux's 3.0 turbodiesel.

A Cummins-powered, Getrag-shifted . . . Chinese pickup?

Quiz: What company is the largest manufacturer of commercial vehicles in the world? 

Unless you’re better informed than I, you answered wrong. The correct response is Foton, a Chinese industrial giant. Now the company is introducing a mid-sized double-cab pickup to the South African and Australian markets, designed to compete directly with such well-established trucks as the Toyota Hilux, Nissan Navaro, and the Volkswagen Amarok. 

Lest you dismiss the Tunland, as the model is known, as another Chinese knockoff product produced solely to compete on price, consider the design process undertaken by the company, and the range of componentry used in the construction. 

In addition to its own engineering staff, Foton employed 50 engineers from Japan and the U.S. (interesting, the U.S. bit . . .) during the design phase. The company produced 120 prototypes during a three-year development program, putting each through 150,000 kilometers of testing on poor rural roads as well as urban highways. Foton contracted with Cummins to design a 2.8-liter, common-rail turbodiesel engine that produces 120 kw (160 hp) and 360 Nm (265 foot pounds). The transmission is a five-speed Getrag, other components come from Bosch, ZF, and Dana. A rear diff lock is available on the four-wheel-drive model. Tow rating is an impressive 2,500 kilograms.

 

Styling of the Tunland is anodyne, but proportional, unlike, say, the awkward Mahindra that never made it to our shores. The interior is likewise unremarkable but functional.

  

The Tunland will be equipped with SRS driver and passenger airbags and ABS brakes, as well as other potentially North-American-friendly features such as iPod integration, Bluetooth connectivity, and options such as leather upholstery. Given all that, the tapping of American engineers, plus the fact that the Cummins engine can be specced for Euro 5 emissions standards, could Foton be eyeing the U.S. market? Sooner or later we will see Chinese brands here; it would be good news if one of them were a turbodiesel pickup.

Safari fare

Standard safari food, Kenya.

What happens when . . .

 . . . you park your Hilux near a bunch of Maasai kids.

In Olkirimatian, in Kenya's South Rift Valley.

Working for a living

 

I’ve always thought my 1973 FJ40 lived a vigorous working life in the three times I’ve turned over its odometer. It’s pulled sailboats, loads of premixed concrete, and, once, a 12,000-pound mobile home absurdly beyond Toyota’s published tow rating. It’s yanked and winched out stuck vehicles heavier than its two tons. It had over 200,000 miles on it when I started a guiding business, leading clients to remote beaches in Mexico for sea kayaking trips, hauling a trailer filled with boats, kit, food, and water for up to six people (not once did it fail). And for much of the time I’ve owned it our “driveways” have been anywhere from seven to ten miles of high-clearance dirt road. 

However, that FJ40 is a pampered garage queen compared to the average Land Cruiser or Land Rover used on field-research projects in the African bush. 

Most safari lodges and tour companies use their vehicles hard, but replace or at least refurbish them fairly regularly. Big NGOs and the UN seem to buy all-new fleets of white Troopies about every three months. 

But then there are the hundreds of underfunded biologists, anthropologists, and archaeologists living in tented camps scattered around the continent, each struggling to stay in operation while doing the kind of field work essential to our understanding of the world. They scramble for grant money and make every penny or shilling count. 

The vehicles on which these researchers depend are usually the cast-offs of tour operators who’ve decided they’re not worth fixing. They’re then expected to go right back to work and operate day in and day out in the worst conditions. Repair shops can be days away, new spares are often unavailable, or unaffordable thanks to usurious import duties. Repairs are made with whatever is at hand—or simply not made at all unless the problem actually stops the vehicle in its tracks. Lastly, while the researchers themselves are sometimes sympathetic to the vehicle and at least try to drive conservatively, this rarely applies to their field assistants and staff, who simply have never been taught proper technique. Oh, and might I add that the tool selection available at most of these camps is, um, minimal? I asked at one and was shown, not making this up, two rounded-off standard screwdrivers of exactly the same size, and a pipe wrench. 

Last week we spent several days in the Laikipia region of Kenya at the camp of a friend, Dr. Shirley Strum, who has been studying baboons for 40 years (see National Geographic magazine, November 1987). Her 1985 Toyota Land Cruiser Troopie is a testament to the fortitude of Toyota’s premier working vehicle.

The non-turbo 2H diesel is as basic and reliable as an engine gets. Its real mileage is unknown and utterly irrelevant, although the odometer is working at the moment. The six-cylinder 2H diesel (a minor update of the early 70s H, itself a minor update of who knows what) starts from cold after three or four cycles of the glow plugs, but pulls bravely through the four-speed transmission with whatever is left of its original 103 horsepower. Tires are a smattering of brands on the split-rim wheels. The horn honks gratuitously when the wheel is turned to a certain angle—which invariably occurs just as one is easing past a nervous herd of elephants or a crowd on a village corner. Brakes? Present, but not paying much attention—a slowly sinking pedal indicates a master cylinder on its last legs, and stopping power in reverse just isn’t there, making failed hill climbs an invigorating experience.

The Land Cruiser's interior hasn't seen a detailer in, well, forever.

But a few mechanical issues are nothing to this Land Cruiser. From the driver’s seat I noticed the inside sheet metal above the doors looked creased and crumpled. It developed that a staff member driving back to camp from Nanyuki took a turn off the tarmac on to dirt a bit too fast, and rolled the vehicle through a full 360 degrees. A Nairobi body shop was enlisted to simply straighten the exterior and give it a fast respray, after which it went right back into service.

Severely rumpled interior sheet metal is a clue to the Troopie's travails. The Troopie’s companion at Chololo is an early 80s short-wheelbase Mercedes G-Wagen, which belongs to the current camp manager, David Mascall. It’s led as hard a life as the Toyota (minus the roll), but showed its still-rattle-free build quality when David took us to photograph an experimental lighting system designed to deter lions from breaking into bomas. Some time ago the G’s original underpowered four-pot expired, and David managed to bodge in a used non-turbo five-cylinder Mercedes diesel with exactly zero access to proper mounts or ancillaries. The intake system now comprises some PVC piping and . . . plywood? Yes. But it starts and runs perfectly.

A Mercedes engineer's nightmare - but it works. Any British MOT inspector would fall over laughing at the sight of these two vehicles. Yet I wouldn’t hesitate to head for Cape Town in either one. Somehow, you just know you’d get there.

 

Tom Sheppard's new vehicle . . .

. . . is a Jeep.

Those who are familiar with Tom's many significant expeditions into the Sahara (including the first west-to-east crossing from the Atlantic to the Red Sea), and his subsequent articles and books (especially the seminal Vehicle Dependent Expedition Guide), will remember his Land Rovers and more recent Mercedes G-Wagen. Tom sold the G-Wagen when it appeared he might not be able to return to his beloved Algeria; but recent developments have rekindled hope. So this time around he decided to try a Jeep Wrangler.

The vehicle is a short-wheelbase model - another departure for Sheppard - but is of course equipped with the fine 2.8 VM turbodiesel, and an automatic transmission - interestingly, the same transmission fitted to the Mercedes, and the praises of which he sings highly. When we visited him this week (and attempted vainly to keep up on a brisk five-mile walk to nearby Hitchin), he showed us the modifications he's done so far, all of which are oriented toward Tom's preferred method of travel: solo vehicle, solo driver, with off-tracks sections sometimes hundreds of miles in extent.

Obviously the requires meticulous preparation and calculations in a landscape as remote as the Algerian Sahara. I'll be reporting in depth on some of the changes to the Jeep as soon as we're back from Kenya.  

 With the passenger seat removed, Tom gains storage space - and the floor is now long enough to sleep on if necessary.

iPhone LifeProof Case, part 1

For more and more people, our phones are not just devices with which to phone home, they are also our primary GPS, pocket camera, video recorder, notepad, music player, book reader, dictionary, translation tool, and complete mobile office. In fact, I am writing this review on my iPhone 4S.

With so much at stake, especially while traveling, protection is key. Not only are these pricey electronic gadgets averse to water and fearful of heights (i.e. made from slabs of glass), they are for the most part uninsurable.

At the Outdoor Retailer show in August I selected a few of the newest crop of rugged iPhone cases to test during our trip to the UK and Kenya. Plenty of rain in one place and dust in the other; I figured on some perfect testing conditions.

First up is the LifeProof Case ($80, Lifeproof.com). I found it highly attractive because it is not only fully waterproof to 2 meters, totally dustproof, and shockproof to 2 meters (full MIL-STD-810F-516.5 = 2 meters/6.6ft drop on all surfaces and edges), it is so streamlined it hardly changes the profile of the phone. It adds 1.5mm to each side and weighs less than an ounce (28g).

But wait there's more: the covers for the camera lenses are double AR-coated optical glass and the speaker covers are gas-permeable waterproof membranes (I believe Gore-Tex but I haven't been able to verify that while on the road).

So here are the first impressions.

- Passed the "at-home" wateproof test as specified in the instructions (to seal, sans iPhone, and submerge in water, weighted, for at least an hour)

During (above) and after (below) the dunk test. No water in the case or at the gaskets.

- The fittings snap together very tightly. Unlike the Otterbox case, they actually are very tough to put together and the company includes a long list of "must-do" actions to ensure the case is sealed properly. While fussy at first, you soon realize it's serious protection for an expensive gadget. However, after sealing in my iPhone 4S, the first thing I noticed was that the screen protector was warped and stood proud of the screen by about 1mm or more. This made it nearly impossible to use as anything but just a "hello" phone. Texting or manipulating photos (which I do a lot) was just silly—the fingers don't meet the screen and there is no contact, so nothing happens.

I searched forums and found this to be an intermitent problem, so after a call to the rep the company agreed to send a new one. This one fit very, very snugly and the screen protector very close (if not 100%) to the screen, so I found it easy to use, if not perfect. The Otterbox fits flat to the screen with no warping, but it's not 100% waterproof to 2m.

Extensive instructions and warnings accompany the LifeProof case.

- The only charger you can use is the factory Apple charger / cord. My spiffy retractable cord won't work with it, nor will it work with my Griffin iTrip.

- To use headphones you must use the adaptor (so it seals) or use Bluetooth.

After 10 days on the road taking photos, posting on Flickr (see Flickr.com/photos/conserventures), Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and here, I can say I really like this case. However, I admit to an unfair gripe. The replacement test model came in blue rather than the original (and my favorite) black. I hate blue. I just do. There's no logic. So when our friend Duncan in Scotland admired the blue case, and showed me his new black LifeProof case, I jumped at the chance to switch. Interestingly, the black case does not fit as well as that blue one, but it fits better than the first one I had. So lesson is: you might have to try multiple models to get the best fit.

So far the screen has not scratched. I have not dropped it, but I've used it in foggy spitting rain in Scotland, and it sat in a wet pocket for most of a half-day walk round a village. I noticed a little bit of fogging when we went from cold/wet to warm environments but it cleared quickly.

Next up: we're flying to Kenya, where we will fully test the LifeProof in the dusty, dry Rift Valley.