By this stage, I’d conclusively proven Niels’ polyurethane patents were economically unviable. Yes, polyurethane could replace cement in mining, but at the required density, it was orders of magnitude more expensive. Cement wasn’t going anywhere.
So the focus shifted to Neil’s low-cost solar panel idea. His patent was deceptively simple: a black liquid flowing in a closed system via thermosiphon through a clear polycarbonate panel, transferring heat to water in a separate tank via a heat exchanger. CH Chemicals, as agents for GE’s Lexan polycarbonate panels, already sold these for building cladding, skylights, and the like. But polycarbonate has two fatal flaws: it degrades in water, and sealing liquid inside without leaks is a nightmare. Still, Neil insisted I pursue it.
After my own fall from his roof—an incident I’d rather not repeat—I convinced Neil to let me test prototypes on the roof of the CH Chemicals factory in Edenvale. I built aluminium-framed rigs: a tank on top, the solar panel angled below to maximise sunlight. The black fluid was water mixed with carbon black, circulating through a heat exchanger in the tank. The water being heated stayed separate, while the panel’s closed circuit heated the black liquid, transferring warmth to the tank via a copper element.
As a control, I also made black panels with clear water inside—spray-painted polycarbonate filled with H₂O. The goal was to test whether the black liquid itself made a difference. After months of testing, the results were clear: it didn’t. A black panel with clear liquid heated water just as effectively as a clear panel with black liquid. Neil’s patent claim, already shaky, now had no leg to stand on.
But the real breakthrough came when I discovered low-cost electrical geysers. Their tanks were made of rotor-moulded foamed polyethylene—rigid, nearly unbreakable, three to five centimetres thick, with decent insulation. Not as good as polyurethane, but good enough, cheap, and structurally sound.
That’s when it hit me: Why not make the tank itself the frame for the solar geyser? I sketched a wedge-shaped design, with the panel on the slanted top and no closed system. The water in the tank would flow through the panel—no heat exchanger, no middleman. Just natural thermosiphon circulation: cold water drawn from the bottom, heated in the panel, rising back into the top of the tank. There would be a simple, readily available float valve in the tank. When someone opened a tap, it would drop the level and feed hot water from the top of the tank to the user while allowing new cold water from the mains into the bottom of the tank. It was simple, cheap, and elegant. And the best part? I could replace the expensive polycarbonate with off-the-shelf polypropylene pool panels—easy to seal, dirt-cheap, and already proven.
I ran the numbers: a 70-litre tank, heating water to 60°C on a good South African summer day, all for about 300 rand. Peanuts. I was buzzing. I took the design to Neil, expecting—what? Grudging admiration? A pat on the back? Instead, he shut me down flat. “Not interested,” he said. My design didn’t use his patented tech, and it didn’t line CH Chemicals’ pockets. Never mind his grand speeches about “charity” and “solving problems in rural areas.” Bullshit. This was about profit, pure and simple.
I was fuming. Clinton, my old business partner, was over for a braai one evening, and I let loose—venting about Neil, the wasted potential, the hypocrisy. Clinton listened, then cut through the noise: “So leave. Do it yourself.” “I can’t,” I said. “No money.” “How much and how long to build a prototype?” he asked. I did the math: three months, 100,000 rand—20,000 a month for me to survive. “Done,” Clinton said. “I’ll back you.”
I handed in my resignation at CH Chemicals in late 2004. That December, we took the kids down to Tish’s family holiday home in South Broom. It was idyllic—crayfish feasts, lazy days—until Mikey jammed his hand into a sea urchin. We rushed him to the clinic. He was in such pain but put up a brave front as they cut it out. We left on Boxing Day, driving back in Tish’s brother’s Pajero, which he had kindly lent us. Then, the radio crackled to life: a tsunami had hit Thailand. I found out later that Bruce’s uncle and aunt—Anthony and Anita—on holiday on Phi Phi Island, were gone. They had been fast asleep in their beachfront bungalow when it hit.
As 2005 began, I was all in. Clinton had given me a workshop at his Fourways mansion. The prototype would work. And this time, it would be mine.