World Wittering

The train rattled off into the night and we finally saw Dar Es Salaam slide away into the distance with nothing but a scene of relief. We hunkered down in our compartment, with  convenient access to the adjacent bar car, and waited for sleep to come.

The next two days passed in a relaxing mood as the hypnotic clackety clacking of the rails accompanied a mixture of beautiful scenery and the abject poverty of the shanty settlements that seem to line the tracks wherever we go. As we passed into Zambia the carriage was pelted with a fusillade of rocks, hurled out of the darkness like a grim farewell, or possibly a greeting.

Soon after, we were to have our first experience of Zambian immigration officialdom, widely renowned as both completely inept and entirely corrupt. Two smiling officials regretted to inform us that the price of a visa had increased, sadly we didn’t have enough US$ to cover the fee, but would they take Zambian Kwache? Cue a performance similar to the one that washing machine repairman gives when you ask him to come round because the door of your machine is stuck and he tells you the element’s gone and the whole drum will need replacing, oh, and there’s a hundred pound callout charge for each twenty minutes he’s there.

Ahem, anyway, they finally decided they could take the currency of the realm, however they would have to then change it into US$ and that would incur a charge, the rate wouldn’t be good etc etc etc. Naturally, we sat smiling inanely until they told us just how much extra it would take, handed it over instantly and then shook their hands and thanked them profusely. Then, after they’d moved off down the train, we spent the next two hours calling them as many bad things as we could think of and quelling our indignation with one or two refreshments from the bar car, which, did I mention? was handily adjacent.

We finally drew into New Kapiri Mposhi around forty hours after departure, then joined a scramble for the onward minibus to Lusaka - a pleasant couple of hours squeezed in regulation African fashion with twenty seven other people and several live chickens in plastic bags - and reached the chaos of the bus station just before nightfall. Here we provoked fisticuffs between rival taxi drivers vying for our fare, before slipping quietly into a waiting car and making for the Cha Cha Cha – that, of course, being the name of the backpackers that was to be our home for the next few nights.

Room sorted, bags dispensed with, we ensconced ourselves at the bar only to discover a strange Zambian facsimile of Toby Simpson called Gordon who felt the need to bray over-loudly at us as we were forced to sit through England’s Rugby World Cup humiliation at the hands of South Africa. Jilted John would have known exactly what to say.

The next three days were spent almost entirely at an out of town retail park called The Arcades where large numbers of white men of a certain age parked their over-large 4×4s, exhibited legs below over-short beige shorts and wandered around in Bluetooth headsets like Universal Soldiers. Lee and I, meanwhile, spent vast amounts in the only decent internet cafe in town uploading photos and bringing the blog up to date. In the evenings we would return, exhausted but with a sense of achievement, to the hostel where Gordon would be waiting to launch into a plummy tirade about English rugby.

Thankfully, three days of solid button monkeying was sufficient and we booked ourselves on the bus to Livingstone, naturally it left at 5am and featured classic lack of legroom and overcrowding combination features. After only eight hours of discomfort we arrived in the surprisingly modest town, perhaps the least impressive really famous place you’ve ever heard of.

The taxi drivers enacted foreign tourist attraction manoeuvre alpha one, achieving eye contact before disembarkation by banging on the window and pointing, before crowding round us to solicit our business. For once, I was one step ahead of them – our hostel of choice was, naturally, Fawlty Towers (the alternative, “Jolly Boys”, we later learned was better in almost every way, but something about the name just put me off) and the map in the Lonely Planet reliably informed me it was only about 500m from the bus station. Still, it was extremely hot and the bags were heavy, why not take a short taxi ride to lessen the burden.

I was forced to use quite colourful terminology as the taxi drivers variously told me that the fare would be in excess of $5 and that the distance was anything up to 10km away – although I couldn’t help wondering how this lie would be explained when it was shown to be patently false, I wasn’t sufficiently intrigued to take up the offer. We hoisted our packs aloft and, with a cheery call of “You’re all full of shit”, we made our way on foot.

Within a minute a 4×4 safari vehicle had pulled over and a lovely Zimbabwean gentleman was offering us a lift, how nice.

Approximately thirty seconds later we clambered out of the truck and checked in to Fawlty Towers, mmm, on reflection, what an apt name that proved to be.

The rest of the day was spent reconnoitering the town, finding out about activities and then walking, what proved to be significantly further than the “just round the corner” described by Maria (the Fawlty Towers receptionist - think of her as a kind of Manuel character), before giving up and hailing a taxi to drive the remining 3km to reach the Zambezi riverfront in time for a picturesque sunset and a refreshing cold beverage.

The next day was a lazy one, we booked a seven day Botswanan safari trip and an excursion to the falls and then made our way back to the waterfront to partake in a sunset booze cruise. Naturally, with all the drink you could consume included in the price, we eschewed beer and went straight for the gin and tonics, quickly identifying partners in crime in PJ and Kristian, ladies from Australia and the USA respectively, and, ineveitably, re-christened PJ and Duncan within, ohh, about twenty minutes, to the accompaniment of loud choruses of “Let’s get ready to rumble” which they met with complete bemusement.

We saw brief glimpses of elephants and hippos, were treated to another spectacular sunset and were then bussed back to town where the four of us headed to Hippos bar to carry on what we’d started – and watch Liverpool play appallingly in the Champions League. At some point Lee announced she was going to the toilet and failed to reappear for over half an hour. This prompted the formation of a three strong search party and a thorough sweep of the premises and interrogation of the staff with no success. The search widened to the hostel without any luck. We continued to search the same places in desperation again and again until, finally, Lee was discovered back in the room drying her hair. “Oh, I decided to take a shower” she announced as I stood in the doorway shaking in silent drunken rage. I’d missed almost all of the second half.

The following day was spent wallowing in bed with the mother of all hangovers and wondering just what had happened to my wallet.

It was a bright and early start the next day as we were driven down to the five star Royal Livingstone hotel, situated on the riverfront just above Victoria Falls. We were then ferried by speedboat over to Livingstone Island, literally on the edge of the huge drop of the falls and the site from which the explorer first caught sight of “The Smoke That Thunders”. Here we were led into the Zambezi itself and swam across the strong current to reach a small rocky outcrop from which we then jumped into a pool right on the lip of the precipice. It was amazing, like being in the most spectacular jacuzzi imaginable. Below us, huge torrents of water crashed a hundred metres or so onto the rocks, sending up a thick spray and producing a pair of parallel rainbows. Our guide held onto our ankles and we dangled right over the edge to pose for photos, all the time waving to the crowds of tourists watching from the Zimbabwean side just a few metres across the chasm.

All too soon our time was up and we returned to the island for a delicious breakfast of eggs benedict before being ferried again back to the shore.

Back at the Royal Livingstone, we enquired at reception as to the route to walk to the Victoria Falls park where we could take a further look at the huge landmark. The receptionist gave us a conspiratorial smile and beckoned us around the corner away from the eyes of his colleagues. He produced a hotel pass and pointed us down the path, through the hotel grounds, which led to the hotel’s exclusive access to the park. This, he said, would save us the $10 each entrance fee. We thanked him profusely and started on our way. “No problem, a pleasure,” he said “now you give me $10 yes?”.

We spent a pleasant couple of hours wandering around the falls. This had been a highlight of the trip that Lee had been really looking forward to, even confessing that she’d have preferred the proposal to have taken place there. Alas, we’d timed our visit for the dry season and so the water was low and the falls not quite as awesome as they would otherwise have been. Nevertheless, Lee was able to take several hundred photographs to commemorate the occasion.

Back in Livingstone, we did some last minute shopping for cigarettes and a wine box and prepared for our trip to Botswana.

First thing in the morning we reported to Zambian immigration to obtain a 7 day re-entry visa. We’d been told a couple of days previously to be there at 8.00 sharp. We strolled in and were directed to an office where a man had his feet up on the desk and was staring intently at his computer. We explained why we were there and he stared at us blankly and said “Come back later, I’m busy”. His computer then made a noise to indicate a download was complete and started to play some Bongo Flavas. He looked slightly sheepish. Lee explained our situation and that we’d been told to come at this time and he sighed deeply and stomped off like a petulant child. A man came running into the office and started rummaging desperately through desk drawers muttering something about “The stamps, where are the stamps”. Eventually we were shown into a small office where a smartly dressed woman looked condescendingly over her glasses at us and finally gave us the stamp we required.

We were driven to the border by the magnificently named Rooster and made arrangements to be picked up again seven days later and returned to Livingstone – as per Maria’s safari itinerary. We swiftly sped across the Zambezi at the only point at which Zambia and Botswana’s borders meet, together with those of Namibia and Zimbabwe. There we were met by a driver from the safari company, Chobezi, who drove us to the immigration office.

We paused momentarily to watch two large baboons fighting a labrador, got our passports stamped, disinfected our feet in case of foot and mouth and were then whisked off to the Chobe Safari Lodge to meet our companions for the next few days.

First we were introduced to Rex, our strapping bush guide with goatie beard and leather cowboy hat to cover his shaved head, then we met Rambo, our guide for the initial river cruise, and were then shown to a boat where we met our co-safari participants – Brian and Eva, Irish expats of our age, living in Australia, and John, Jacqui, Jerry, Joy, Jean and Wendy, a mixture of South Africans and Brits, some expat living in SA, and all of advanced years.

The boat weighed anchor and we spent a very pleasant couple of hours cruising the Chobe River. Immediately we saw a huge crocodile, herds of buffalo and bathing hippos. There were exotic birds everywhere, including impressive fish eagles and, our old favourite, the ox pecker. We saw baboons mating, warthog and all sorts of antelope, including the regal sable.

But all of this paled into insignificance with the sheer numbers of elephants all around us. As far as the eye could see there were herds of elephants, rolling in mud, crossing the rivers in orderly lines, tending young, it was breathtaking.

Soon we were cruising past the safari lodge where Richard Burton remarried Elizabeth Taylor in October 1975, and then we saw Rex waiting to meet us with the Land Cruiser on the banks of the river. We disembarked and boarded the vehicle to be whisked off to where a pair of lions were sheltering, with their day’s kill, under a large bush to escape the heat of the sun.

We drove to camp where we were shown our tents and then ate a delicious lunch, prepared by the amazing Alfred, and then later headed back out for a game drive, seeing bush buck, giraffes, rare pookoo antelope, kudus, zebras and banded mongooses. We had our second lion sighting of the day, spotting a group of seven males and females stalking through the bush and then stopped for sundowners and gazed out over the plains, once more drinking in the sight of thousands of elephants converging on the river for their evening drink.

Suddenly the word came through of a leopard sighting and we jumped back in the vehicle and raced off in the direction indicated on the radio - an elephant carcass. We smelt it long before we saw it, a saggy grey heap of bones emanating a stench that had us all gagging with nothing more than the odd vulture feeding. It was decided not hang around and so we returned to camp.

The fire was blazing and camp chairs were arranged in a circle. We availed ourselves of the complimentary wine and carried on getting to know our new friends. A lively and delicious dinner followed and we ended up talking long into the night by the firelight.

Day two began just before sunrise, quarter to five. We broke camp with aching heads and then took our seats once more in the Land Cruiser. The day entailed a drive through Chobe National Park and on for several hours on sandy tracks to reach Savuti, a large flat expanse of marshland a hundred kilometres or more to the south west.

Here we had a slightly disappointing day, seeing little wildlife of note save for a hyena, black backed jackal and the occasional wildebeest and ostrich. We took sundowners again at a watering hole and watched in awe as tumescent elephants put on a mesmerising display of masculinity.

A second night of wine fuelled jollity ensued around the campfire, soured only by the news that Liverpool had drawn 0-0 with Birmingham City at home, and we went to bed with the haunting sound of lions calling to each other through the dark.

Once again, we broke camp as the dawn was breaking and set off on another mammoth dirt track drive, this time into the Okavango Delta proper, the Moremi Game Reserve. After a punishing journey, we pitched camp and lunched at Xakanaxa and then headed out again for a late afternoon game drive, seeing bizarre albino giraffes and sundowning at the edge of a beautiful lake. Lee caused much amusement by having to look at her watch each time she spotted something before being able to tell the rest of us whether it was in front, at 12 o’clock, behind, at 6 o’clock, and so on.

Our second day in Moremi was more exciting as, mid-morning, we got a tip-off that there was a leopard with a kill nearby. We drove to the area in question and everyone kept their eyes peeled in the direction of the trees where the kill was supposed to be stashed. The disappointment was palpable as nothing was discerned, a collective sigh was heaved and Rex aplogised and put the truck into gear to head off. Suddenly I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye and there it was, a magnificent female leopard, lapping water from the ground just a couple of metres in front of us. We’d all been staring so intently at the trees we’d just not seen it.

Back at camp, the mood lightened, Rex seemed more at ease and we tucked into a huge brunch before retiring to our tents to sleep through the hottest part of the day. Then it was off out again for a late afternoon game drive, ending up once more at the spot where we’d seen the leopard. As we pulled up, another vehicle was there and the occupants pointed into the scrub. We glimpsed a pair of leopards making their way away from us. We quickly drove the Land Cruiser to other side of the bushes and were rewarded with the sight of the male climbing a tree, then descending again and walking casually right past the front of the truck and off into the bushes again.

Back at camp there was a party atmosphere. This was because we were having a party – it was Jacqui’s birthday so we shared out birthday cake and champagne. Then we learned that Brian and Eva were on honeymoon and that it was Eva’s birthday too – cue more celebrating and a very late night.

By now the pre-dawn wake up calls were starting to turn me into a zombie. We broke camp once again before the sun was up and drove off-road for another five hours or so to the town of Maun. By this point we had learned from Rex that Maria had given us false information and that the safari would end two days hence in Maun, there would be no transport to take us the 600km or so back to Kasane and the Zambian border and there was no way we would get back before our 7 day re-entry visa ran out. Rex introduced us to Dave, owner of the Back to the Bridge Backpackers, and we discussed our options. He told us not to worry about the visa situation as Fawlty Towers could put us on a manifest and the visa fee would be waved, they would just need enough notice and to know the date. We decided we’d take a few extra days to see the enormous salt pans to the east and Dave would make the necessary arrangements.

After lunch at the backpackers we boarded a pair of boats stocked with cooler boxes full of Peroni and made off into the delta once more. We spent four hours speeding along water channels in the reeds seeing colourful birds, impala and hippos – all the while Dave and Rex treated us to a string of anecdotes about people who had been killed in the area by crocodiles and hippos – the pick being Dave’s childhood fishing trip where he saw a horse have its head bitten clean off by a hippo whilst drinking from the river.

Suddenly, we raced around a corner made blind by tall reeds and found ourselves on a collision course with the rear end of a huge bull elephant. Fortunately, Dave’s reactions were spot on and he prevented us becoming suppositories with inches to spare.

Eventually, we pulled up to the landing area of Gunn’s Bush Camp on an island in the inner delta. We decamped to the wonderfull deck area and partook of more refreshment whilst looking out over the delta with zebras and antelope in the distance.

We were shown to our tents, Rex fixing it for Brian and Eva to be bumped up to the honeymoon suite, and then we all met up again for another delicious dinner. Back at the tent, sleep was hampered by the loud sound of hippos grazing right outside, something roaring and the sound of a thousand things. Late night visitors to the toilets were surprised to find warthogs in sleeping there.

After the obligatory early breakfast, we were sent out into the delta in mekoro, small, shallow draught fibreglass versions of traditional dugout canoes propelled by poles. After half an hour or so we reached another island and set off on a walking safari, treading quietly through the bush and seeing various antelope and giraffes at close quarters, being on foot giving an entirely different feel to the experience, somehow making it more intimate.

Towards the end of the walk we had a major stroke of luck and caught sight of a pack of seventeen rare wild dogs, cute looking with Mickey Mouse ears but savagely efficient killers. They stood alert and watched us watching them for a while before casually strolling off into the undergrowth.

A few minutes later, as we made our way through some woods, a pair of impala came running at top speed towards us, coming from the direction the wild dogs had gone off in. There was a wonderful moment where time seemed to stand still and you could see the lead impala’s eyes widen as he caught sight of us and panic at the perceived danger, then in an instant they had changed direction and were leaping away through the dense wooodland to safety.

After lunch, Brian, Eva, Lee and I opted for another walking safari while the others too the mekoro to a hippo pool. Once again we encountered antelope, giraffe and another, different pack of wild dogs, breath taking.

Our final night in camp and as a group became a raucous affair, we polished off our wine box and had shots of Bailey’s-esque Amarula forced on us by the South African contingent before tucking into a huge meal, swapping details and planning to meet up again in December when we reach South Africa.

We finally had a blessed lie in and didn’t have to be up until eight for breakfast - just as well, I was in a state. Then there was a brief boat ride to the airstrip where we watched as a pair of single propped planes made a bumpy landing to pick us up. Once airborne we had a fantastic view of the delta stretching to the horizon in all directions, the many waterways winding in crazy patterns around myriad islands and the glimpse of elephants. The pilot took it upon himself to enhance the ride with a series of low swoops and steep turns. Thanks. For. That. Mate.

Back at Maun we had genuinely emotional goodbyes. Brian and Eva went off to pay a hugely exorbitant price for a flight to Livingstone and the South African crew piled into their MPV for a three day drive back to the Cape. Despite our initial trepidation, the oldies had proved that they knew how to enjoy themselves and we look forward to seeing them all again later in our trip. Brian and Eva – good luck with married life, you know where we are if you ever come back from down under.

We picked up a lift back to the Bridge Backpackers, checked into a large tent with the luxury of a proper double bed and spent the rest of the day relaxing at the rivers edge.

Next day we made our way into Maun in the hope of acquiring a tent and sleeping bags, having decided that camping was the way forward. Alas, nothing was suitable, we had a pleasant lunch and made arrangements to catch the 6am bus next morning before returning to the backpackers and propping up the bar for the rest of the night, swapping tales with colourful locals and receiving many slurred words of wisdom.

Somehow we dragged our carcasses out of bed in the darkness and were stood outside the gates awaiting our taxi at 5.15. At 5.30 we got the security guard to phone another taxi for us and we made the bus station just as the bus pulled in. This was quite fortuitous as, in Botswana, there is no system of advance booking of tickets, one simply boards the bus as it arrives or one doesn’t get on.

It was a relatively short, four hour, journey to Gweta. We were dropped just outside town beside a huge plaster aardvark. This monstrous effigy marks the turning to Planet Boabab, where we were to spend the next couple of nights in a small hut made of straw. The hotel complex itself is a magnificent collection of thatched, rendered buildings set in a a ghostly expanse of monolithic leafless boabab trees, the perfect place, I would imagine, to take hallucinogenic drugs – sadly, we didn’t have any.

We ate a hearty breakfast and then spent the rest of the day lounging by the pool in the intense heat, somewhere in the upper forties Celsius. Suddenly a huge wedding party turned up simply to dance their way slowly around the pool for photographs and waves of glorious African a capella harmonies rolled across the parched landscape. We befriended a group of locals on a stag do and joined them to watch as Botswana took on South Africa (who had Norman Smith, Lee’s dad, up front) at football – the result didn’t go their way but I was on my feet cheering as the World Service informed me of Liverpool’s last gasp winner at Wigan.

At seven o’clock the next morning we joined another couple in a drive out to the edge of the salt pans. We stopped to watch our guide throw rocks at a Mozambiquan Spitting Cobra and then took to quad bikes and made our way out onto the pan. For two hours we careered around the edge of the pan, taking in the vat emptiness of the place. A heavy rainfall a few days before had rendered the inner areas of the pan undriveable, as we discovered, getting stuck in the mud several times.

Back at the truck we brushed off the dried caked mud that pretty much covered us and reboarded. We took a detour and found a man whose job it is to watch a community of meercats all day every day just so people like us don’t have to find them ourselves. We waited long enough to watch a full reconstruction of their classic TV moments, they did the lot for us – standing up, squeaking, looking around, it was amazing.

Back at the hotel, after a siesta, we joined in a Botswanan Independence Day party, eating from the brai (BBQ), tapping our feet as the DJ spun Bongo Flava remixes of early house tunes and watching the local ladies shake their booties. Lee took me to meet a man she’d befriended in the bar, Deon, a South African living in Francistown, who had offered to give us a lift there the following morning – mercifully, not too early. We ignored the fact that his moustache made him look like he might have a cellar that he might want to keep us in and gratefully accepted.

Around midday we piled into Deon’s Land Rover, with his partner Gerda and step daughter Riana, and drove the hour or so to Nata where we stopped for a quick beer to cool off and Gerda told us the amusing story of how her aunt had died of a heart attack there. Then it was back on the road with beers from the cooler box, Deon and Gerda on the whisky and sodas and all five of us with constant fags on the go.

Gerda and Deon insisted we stay the night at their place and so we stopped off in town to stock up on beverages and then drove out to their house, a stilted wooden construction – no cellar - set in a large plot of land with views in all directions. Gerda, a trained chef, rustled up a delicious meal, we slobbed out in front of the TV and Lee broke the flush on the toilet. It was just fantastic to be in someone’s home and not yet another hotel, particularly the home of people who obviously knew how to enjoy themselves.

In the morning Deon and Riana took us into town where we were able to buy a tent, sleeping bags and thermorests and then we attempted to get a bus to Kasane. The bus station was absolute carnage, you couldn’t move for people returning home after the Independence Day holiday, there was no chance of catching a bus until the following day and no one to give any information on bus departure times.

We drove to the Marang Hotel, where we caught up with a couple from Planet Boabab, who Deon was helping with a troublesome motorbike, and saw a young  bearded guy we’d last seen in Lusaka who was cycling from Morocco to Cape Town. We umm-ed and ah-ed about camping there over a couple of beers but Deon once again offered us his place and we didn’t refuse.

Back at the house I took a dip in the pool before Deon and I shot at beer cans with his air rifle, then his friend Leon called with a dinner invite for all of us that he wasn’t taking no for an answer to.  We piled into the car and made our way to the outskirts of town where Leon and his wife Krista lived in a small palace.

As an enormous electrical storm raged, we sat in the porch as Leon tended the brai and spoke on the phone to Botswana’s Permanent Secretary. Then a huge bolt of lightning struck and all the lights went out prompting Lee to scream in terror.

When the lights came back on Riana and Krista started bringing out trays of various spirits in shot glasses and they taught us a rude traditional Afrikaans toast before we tucked into enormous steaks and salad. Eventually, with everyone more than a little tipsy and, fortunately, the anticipated offers of swinging having failed to materialise, it was time to leave. Deon manoeuvred the car out of the driveway and down the road as far as the Marang, where we all piled into the casino. I say casino, it wasn’t very Vegas-esque, no card tables or roulette wheels, more like a slot machine arcade. We watched as Deon, Gerda and Riana lost some moeny and we all got a free drink. In the toilets they were playing Kids In America by Kim Wilde.

Deon dropped us back at the bus station at about eight o’clock next morning and we started to ask around for a bus to Kasane. One driver advised us to get his bus as far as Nata and pick up a Kasane bus there, saying it wouldn’t be a problem. When we reached Kasane we were informed that there is only one Francistown to Kasane bus a day and it leaves at 6am – what a surprise.

We made our way to the Kasane side of the junction and, in the midday sun, started to signal passing cars for a lift. Four hours later we admitted defeat for the day and accepted a lift 10km in the wrong direction to Nata Lodge,  pitched our tent for the first time and settled down in the bar where they accompanied our beers with a soundtrack of Renee and Renate.

Bushed from the heat, Lee retired early while I stayed up on the off chance that the Champions League would be on. Upon enquiry at the bar, I was informed that the staff were unable to change to the required channel, I pressed the point, they stared at me blankly, I gave up. Instead, I got talking to some “okes” (South African for blokes) at the bar and one of them, an enormously fat man who was very very drunk indeed, said he had a truck going to Kasane the next day that we could get a lift with – get in! However, the driver wanted to be there before 8am and so we would have to be ready to be picked up at 4am – oof! I gladly accepted.

Lee took the news that we would be breaking camp at 3.30 am remarkably well and calmly got up and watched me do it when the time came without interfering at all. We stood dutifully in a kind of dazed state at reception until 4.30 when Lee persuaded the security guard to let her borrow his phone to call the driver. We were duly informed that he, Mafa, had decided to stay the night in Maun and would pick us up at 11am. We trooped back to the campsite and had the tent up in ten minutes, we were asleep in eleven.

At 11 am we stood once again at reception. At 11.30 we borrowed a receptionist’s phone and established that there had been a delay, Mafa would be with as at 2pm. Back at the bar, we got talking to a Zimbabwean who lived locally who was very doubtful that we’d be picked up at all, and, if so, the driver was bound to be drunk. He also informed us that his electrician had literally just left for Kasane and would have been glad to give us a lift. Ta muchly.

At 2.30 Mafa promised us faithfully he’d be there at 4.00.

And at 4.00 he phoned to say he’d be there in ten minutes. And he was. And he was sober.

We piled into the cab and spent the next four hours bouncing around as Mafa negotiated the notorious road to Kasane – which had given John from our safari three punctures and a set of dented rims. The potholes were ridiculously deep and this, combined with the amount of wildlife in the area and the setting sun made for a not entirely stress free journey. Nevertheless, by nine o’clock we were sitting in the bar of the Thebe River Campsite in Kasane with the tent up and a cold one in hand.

The following morning, Friday, Lee rang Maria at Fawlty Towers and passed on all the relevant information to get us on the next available visa waiver manifest - we were told we’d be able to cross Monday. We pottered around the town, bumping into Rex and arranging to meet him at the camp bar that evening.

After a day when the temperature hit forty nine degrees Celsius, our thirst was healthy. We got talking to one of the guides, Koois, and his wife, Annette, who wanted to sell us some of her home made jewellry and who felt that the problem with Planet Boabab was that too many blacks hung out there. After this somewhat shaky start, we got talking about less sensitive subjects, such as the war with Angola in the 1980’s, and we were joined by the manager of the local Spar, Philip, who was quite impressively inebriated and couldn’t open his mouth without venting a stream of utter filth. At one point I asked him if he had Tourette’s and he responded “Durex? I’ve got whole shelves full!” It was a very late night.

The weekend was whiled away recovering from this momentous night, I left the tent only to watch the rugby while Lee made it into town to upload photos. The heat was unbearable.

Monday morning we made for the camp office and got in touch with Maria to check that the waiver had been arranged and we could now cross the border without incurring a charge. It was at this point that she informed us that we were ineligible for the waiver as we had already been into Zambia. We were stunned.

We packed all our gear and arranged a lift to the border ASAP, arrived at the river crossing and blagged our way straight onto the courtesy speedboat ferrying safari punters backwards and forwards, then made for the Zambian immigration office. I stepped back and let Lee storm into action, she handed over our passports and forms and calmly announced we had a visa waiver from Fawlty Towers. When the paperwork couldn’t be found we were asked to wait and the immigration officer phoned Maria who gave him her part of the story. He put down the phone and told us we would have to buy the visas. He stamped the passports and Lee made to hand over the dollars.

And then suddenly he changed his mind and said it was ok, we didn’t have to pay. Just like that. Completely corrupt and against the rules but this time in our favour – nice.

We leaped into a taxi and then waited while they found four more people to share it with us and we were at Fawlty Towers within the hour. We were barely through the door and Lee launched into a tirade against Maria before I could even put my bag down. Maria just sat saying nothing and staring blankly. Lee demanded to speak to her manager only to be told they were away. She demanded to speak to them on the phone and Maria disappeared into a back office.

Eventually I was led into the office to meet Richard, the English owner of the activity company at the hostel. I recounted our story, negligently forgetting to mention the last minute generosity of the immigration officer, and hey presto, Richard agreed to let one of us go rafting the following day for free – result.

And so, there we were, bright and early next morning ferried to the same waterfront where we’d embarked on our booze cruise, given a safety briefing in a room of people who all looked completely petrified and then whisked off to the Boiling Pot at the base of the falls to climb into a large rubber raft with twenty three rapids in front of us.

Lee clearly didn’t want to do it at all, but, all credit to her, she didn’t put up too much of a fight. Our guide was called Babyface and the rest of the crew was made up of, Canadians, Dave, Keith and Morgan and two Scots lassies, Kate and Clare.

We did fine, only losing Kate at number two and Dave a couple of rapids later, nothing serious. Then we hit number eight, the Midnight Diner, a huge long roaring monster class 4/5 rapid. We must’ve got our positioning slightly wrong, we took the drop into the white water and the raft turned sideways and flipped. I was taken over the highside and landed under the boat clutching desperately at the rope as I felt one of my shoes get sucked off. I had to let go as I felt my breath running out and, after an age in the turbulence, I finally popped out the other side of the boat and above the surface.

Just in time to get hit by a succession of further waves as I was tossed down the rapid gasping for air and swallowing Zambezi. Eventually the water calmed and I was dragged aboard another raft. I’m ashamed to say my first words were not to enquire as to Lee’s safety but to ask if anyone had seen my shoe. Then I sighed with relief, the shoe floated past and I was also able to see Lee holding on to a rescue kayak.

The rest of the day was a lot calmer, there were no further spills and we were ferried back to base for dinner and to watch the DVD of the day – the flip looked spectacular – naturally we forked out for that and the CD of photos. Our raft – Team Oh Shit – repaired to the bar to catch the sunset and then we retired back to Jolly Boys hostel in town, when we discovered it was much nicer than Fawlty Towers, and made merry until late.

We met the Canadians at 7.15 next morning and caught a taxi to the border with the intention of seeing the Zimbabwe side of the falls. Sadly, the guys hadn’t got a multiple-entry visa – unlike us, thanks once again corrupt immigration man – and so Lee and I walked alone across the Victoria Falls bridge and into enemy territory.

We found our way to the park and then fought our way through the hordes of Japanese tourists, spending a wonderful couple of hours taking in the view from that side – much more spectacular. We were even able to see people jumping into the Livingstone Island pool that we’d done ourselves weeks earlier.

Back into town, we hurriedly packed our tent and made for the bus station – aiming for the 12.30 departure. We boarded and, naturally, it didn’t leave till 2pm. We made Lusaka at 9.00, bought our onward ticket for the Malawi border – a 6am departure natch – and caught a cab to Cha Cha Cha. There was energy for one beer only and then we treated ourselves to a room and hit the hay.

For once our taxi did turn up at 5.15 and we were on board the bus promptly at 5.30. Just before our eventual departure, at around 7.30, a man with a crazed look in his eye clambered onto the bus, opened up a heavy, leather bound book and started to preach to us. He read us a passage, then repeated it very very slowly but louder and then asked us all to bend our heads in a prayer to bless the bus on its journey.

“I bathe this bus in the blood of Cheese Hearse, I bathe the driver in the blood of Cheese Hearse, I bathe the passengers in the blood of Cheese Hearse, may the blood of Cheese Hearse carry you unto Malawi in safety, AAAAAAAAAAMEN”.

What could you do?

Morning came in Moshi and we decided to start the day with a relaxing massage to rid our bodies of the aches and pains of the mountain. Sadly, the masseur was a grumpy deaf mute and the massage was mediocre at best. Shrugging our shoulders, we took a ride into Moshi in search of cafe latte and t’internet, eventually finding both and researching our next destination, the mystical archipelago of Zanzibar.

Back at the hotel, we enquired as to the readiness of our laundry. Perhaps we shouldn’t have been shocked, after the previous day’s debacle of having all our dirty washing emptied onto the reception floor to be counted, when they brought dozens of carrier bags of laundered clothing through and asked us, hopefully, to see if we could identify our belongings. After several more trips to find anything that might have been left in the machine, the task was complete and we were scratching our heads in amazement – could this really be the best hotel in Moshi?

We rendezvoused with Nick and Sarah at the pool and then made our way back into town for a pleasant dinner with fizzy wine to celebrate our engagement and then decided to move on to a brand new trendy bar for cocktails. The day was summed up perfectly when we reached the bar to find an empty cavernous room devoid of all atmosphere. Still, they had mojitos on the menu, perhaps just one and then back to the hotel eh?

The bar tender gave us a winning smile and set about mixing the mojitos. After a few minutes I had to step in as they didn’t seem to bear any resemblance to the drink I know and love. The mixologist referred me to the menu and I was amazed to find that the Moshi incarnation of, possibly, the world’s finest drink, contained none of the traditional ingredients. We made our excuses and left, retiring to the hotel bar for some ludicrously priced gin and tonics and then said our goodbyes to Nick and Sarah, saying we’d meet them in Stone Town the next day – they would be flying, while we were travelling, you guessed it, by ridiculously early local bus.

Once again, we piled onto the bus at an ungodly hour, wedged ourselves into the inadequate seats and settled in for the journey. Fortunately, it was only around one o’clock when we reached Dar Es Salaam’s bus station. We jumped in a cab and headed for the ferry port, arriving with only minutes to spare before the next departure. This provided a tout with the perfect opportunity to hurry me along through the ticket buying process and fleece me in the currency conversion.

Still, we were ahead of schedule and on the boat to the paradise island of Unguja, the largest island of the arhipelago. After a couple of hours of only moderately turbulent crossing, we were disembarking in Stone Town, capital of Zanzibar.

As luck would have it, we immediately bumped into Nick and Sarah and they took us to the quaint hotel they’d found before we retired to Mercury’s bar, a tribute to the island’s most famous son, Freddie, for a refreshing beverage and a gorgeous sunset. They confirmed that their flight had been pleasant and they’d had the bonus of outstanding views as they flew over Kilimanjaro.

After a wash and brush up we had a wander around the wonderful, maze like streets of Stone Town. The Arab influence brought to mind the medina of Marrakech or the similarly moorish alleyways of Cadiz, but with a more decrepit feel, the buildings seeming neglected and decayed. We ended up at the seafront and a wonderful night market, the stalls piled high with fresh seafood from that day’s catch. We made our selections, haggled over the price and then stood back as the tasty treats were barbecued on the spot. Devouring the platefuls greedily, we all agreed it was some of the finest seafood we’d tasted.

Time to move on, and we went in search of a friendly bar, eventually stumbling across a wonderful local establishment on the water’s edge, the Starehe Club, where we were treated to excellent reggae selections, ice cold beers and friendly rastafarian company. Around midnight we made our excuses, stopped to pick up essential supplies, and then made our way to bed.

Next morning we did some general faffing – it was imperative that Sarah load up with carvings and fabrics and Nick bought a garish comedy African shirt - and then took a minivan an hour or so up to the north west coast and the wonderful golden sandy beach of Kendwa. We were soon ensconsed, though not all together, Nick and Sarah in a lovely pair of sea view thatched bungalows, Lee and I in a woven palm leaf hut on the beach without power or running water.

We hooked up in a pleasant beach shack restaurant and ate yet more succulent fish and then retired to the hammocks to soak up the sun, convinced we’d found paradise.

And that’s pretty much how we spent the next couple of days, doing little but laze, eat and drink on the beach, taking a sunset boat ride up the coast to the next town for a pleasnt seafood barbecue at a restaurant whose toilets were, slightly worryingly, up the street and down a dark back alley – necessitating an escort whenever the girls needed to go.

Nick and I went diving for a day to the Mnemba Atoll, exploring crystal clear waters and encountering hundreds of brightly coloured fish, enormous coral formations and, best of all, several turtles. Sarah came along for the trip planning to snorkel but deciding the sea was too rough, a view I shared, as I hung over the side on the way home, emptying the contents of my stomach into the, now not so crystal clear, water.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, despite Lee’s last minute (East 17 style) pleadings for them to stay another day, Nick and Sarah bade us farewell and headed back to Stone Town for a final evening’s partying at the reggae club before flying home the next afternoon. We were genuinely sorry to see them go after they’d proved such good company during the previous weeks. Lee and I had been concerned as to how we would cope with travelling with other people in tow, but it had never been less than a pleasure. Lee wasn’t even that disappointed to lose her bet about the two of them becoming more than friends.

Still, there was no time to be downcast as we had a packed programme to attend to. The next morning we moved to the other end of the beach to a villa with running water, though still no power, for the bargain price of $12 a night with breakfast, less than half the price of our banda hut – the reason? It was still being built of course.

We spent the next ten days or so adhering to a punishing schedule of rising around eleven am for breakfast, wandering along the beach to a vacant hammock or lounger, reading a book or listening to music, fending off continuous offers of massage, hair braiding and henna painting, romantic strolls, classically beautiful sunsets and dinners in any of the half dozen beach bars, all washed down with plenty of thirst quenching beverages. Bliss.

Eventually, however, it was time to go exploring. We caught the local, overloaded, dala dala back to Stone Town and set about organising an east coast trip. We soon hooked up with a friendly local, Mohammad, who agreed to hire us an old school Vespa at a ridiculously cheap rate. As luck would have it, he also had a hotel which was still in the process of being completed, we decided to stay two nights at a more than reasonable price.

Having explored Stone Town further, roamed the markets for beachwear and picked up other essential supplies, partaken of more delicious seafood and another evening at the reggae bar, it was time to head off again – this time south and eastwards.

We loaded up the bright red Vespa with the minimum of gear and zoomed off through wild forests and villages of mud brick, palm thatched huts. After a few hours, we reached Jambiani, a sprawling hamlet with a beach of pure white powdery sand. Here we were fortunate once more, a couple on the beach tipping us off about the wonderful Kiddo’s cafe at the northern end of the village.

We searched it out and were delighted to meet rasta Kiddo and his German partner, Liza. They had a small house on the beach with an adjoining guestroom and first floor cafe with panoramic views over the turquoise Indian Ocean. It was like staying in the smallest boutique hotel in the world, gorgeously furnished and decorated with Liza’s home made shell creations, and an organic breakfast including Kiddo’s home made peanut butter and preserves which you could almost feel doing you good.

We spent the days lazing, reading and wandering up and down the almost deserted beach and in the evenings the owner of a local restaurant would bring us more delicious traditional seafood dishes to try. We probably would have stayed longer than three days but the Vespa parked by the gate was a constant reminder that there was plenty more of the island to see. 

We followed the road northwards, through Paje and Bweju, here taking to the sand and riding the scooter up the beach to get a closer look. By midday we’d reached the end of the road, literally, at the tip of the Michamvi Peninsula but hadn’t found anywhere that felt right to stay. We decided instead to retrace our steps and head for the main road up the centre of the island before striking east again to hit the coast further north.

All was going swimmingly until a few kilometres outside the fishing port of Chwaka when the trusty Vespa shuddered to a standstill and refused to restart. I felt such a fool, I’d actually believed the fuel guage when it said we still had a quarter of the tank left. This situation might be a nightmare in “developed” countries and necessitate a long walk to a petrol station. Fortunately, in Zanzibar, as in most of the places we’d visited, there are unofficial petrol sellers every few hundred metres. We raised a good laugh from the gathered locals as we wheeled the inert machine to the nearest fuel purveyor, but were on our way again in minutes with enough gas to reach Chwaka and a proper filling station.

Indeed, we pulled in to fill up about two minutes later, recounted the hilarious story of our breakdown to the attendant and then jumped back on to set off for Pongwe. The Vespa steadfastly refused to start.

We spent ages watching as passersby took it in turns to try to get the thing moving, the local police from a nearby road block taking keen interest and repeatedly stating the obvious “it’s not working”, yeah, thanks.

After about an hour a man in an islamic kaftan succeeded in firing the motor and then disappeared into the distance on what we hoped was a test drive. He reappeared after about ten minutes, we sighed with relief and paid him the, quite reasonable, five dollars he requested.

We struck onwards, the sky was beginning to bruise and we needed to secure lodgings. At Pongwe there were only three hotels, all either full or vastly overpriced and unpleasant. We decided to risk carrying on, hoping to reach the next village, Kiwengwa, before sunset as the scooter lights, inevitably, were inoperative.

Lady luck smiled on us and we pulled up outside a big resort hotel in Kiwengwa just as the final crimson rays were disappearing below the horizon. Then lady luck decided she didn’t like us anymore – the hotel declared they were full, although we suspected they just didn’t like the look of us, and the scooter refused to start again.

A friendly Masai warrior (the favoured security option of your discerning Zanzibar hotel) offered to show Lee some other accommodation options while I tried to convice the hotel to let me leave the Vespa in their car park overnight. They refused. When Lee eventually reappeared there was good news and bad news – all the hotels in the village were full, but she had managed to negotiate for us to spend the night with a local family.

We wheeled the useless machine down to the house in question and were shown into the bedroom of the family’s teenage son, adorned with pictures of the Juventus football team and a quite distasteful poster above the bed of a semi-clothed couple engaged in a full on snog and enclosed in a love heart. I was made up.

We had a barely edible dinner in a deserted restaurant across the road (if I had a dollar for every meal we’ve had in an empty restaurant…) and then made our way to what we thought looked like a happening local bar. It wasn’t, we had a beer and went to bed.

Mohammad arrived to repair the Vespa next morning and we were soon on our way again, his reassurances that the problem would not recur almost convincing. We continued north and reached the village of Matemwe where we found yet another deserted beach of the whitest sand yet. We checked out some hotel options and were beginning to fear the worst again as they were all full, but then we stumbled across an inviting beachfront villa. What do you know? not only were they empty, they were carrying out some repairs and so we were able to negotiate yet another radically reduced price. We had the pick of the elegant bedrooms, a sumptuous lounge and dining area with satellite TV and yet another mock-Tudor bar area, a swimming pool and terrace overlooking the sea. Not only that, but the price included all meals and a staff of six to cater for our every whim. Ideal.

We settled in immediately, watching Manchester City beat United, which almost made up for the Liverpool Chelsea match not being on – it was never a penalty.

Indeed, we settled in so well that we treated ourselves to three nights of luxury, justified by the fact that it rained each day, we lounged on the enormous sofa watching movies, reading and tucking into the bar.

All too soon it was time to leave, we saddled up the Vespa again and motored our way back to Stone Town where we checked into a half-decent hotel, eschewing our budget option as we’d been so spoilt by the previous days’ luxury. Lee booked us on to a Spice Tour the following day where we joined a motley bunch of package tourists trooping around a plantation being given the opportunity to purchase various spice related products, thrilling. Afterwards we got a quick look at the Mangapwani caves – where slaves were kept in hiding in squalid conditions for weeks before being loaded aboard boats in secret after the trade was abolished. Then it was a short walk down to the beach for an hour or so of sun before heading back to the bus for town. The path back from the beach had, unfortunately, become infested with huge viscious ants and we had to run the gauntlet, no one escaping without at least several bites.

That evening, we splashed out on a special romantic seafood barbecue at one of the posher hotels, just outside town. This had a lively sports bar where I was able to catch the second half of a game before we were shown to our table on the beach. Alas, the food didn’t live up to its billing and we found ourselves, once again, amongst the package holiday punters and feeling out of place.

Lee decided that the best way to make up for the previous day’s mediocrity was to take a small dhow over to nearby Prison Island. I was less than enthusiastic but we clambered aboard the boat and set off for the hour’s journey. On the way we had a bit of a falling out and then spent a miserable hour or so stomping around the island not talking to each other. The only thing of real interest to see was a collection of rare giant tortoises. We wandered into the enclosure, read the sign instructing us not to feed or touch the tortoises, the keeper handed me a handful of rotten cabbage and then ushered us through to where a group of Scandinavian children were terrorising the poor timid creatures. It has to be said though, they were impressive creatures, the oldest ones absolutely enormous and, once they caught sight of the rotten cabbage leaves, surprisingly nimble. And incredibly smelly. We made our peace and got back in the boat.

That evening we happened upon a hidden gem of a restaurant in the Stone Town backstreets, the Sambusa Two Tables. We were ushered into the anonymous looking building by the elderly proprietor and taken upstairs, through his living room where his wife was watching TV and into a conservatory housing aforesaid two tables.

We shared the table with a posh couple from Notting Hill (“I can’t stand Carnival, so many hoi poloi”), an Italian couple – who sat quietly as the Lee and the two Londoners launched into a tirade decrying the large Italian resort hotels which dot the coastline – and a Canadian Moroccan chap who I can barely remember. Lee and I tucked into the bag of beers we’d brought, the owner didn’t seem to mind despite being it being a muslim establishment, as we were treated to a selection of delicious local delicacies.

The following day, while Lee wandered the streets photographing her favourite bits of Stone Town, I went off for another day’s diving, this time to a couple of wrecks about twenty minutes offshore. The first dive was to a depth of thirty metres, my deepest yet, to an intact rusting steel hull teeming with thousands of fish. The second wreck was more spread out over the sea bed, an eerie sight,but, once again, with plenty of marine life inhabiting the nooks and crannies.

I hooked up with Lee again on the quayside and we caught a dala dala back up to Kendwa. Half an hour or so out of town Lee remembered she’d left a disk of photos in a computer in the post office. Before I could say anything she’d jumped out of the dala dala and said she’d see me in Kendwa later.

The sun was just starting to set as I walked down the kilometre long lane to the beach. I reached our little villa where the manager, Juma, was expecting us, more than a little concerned that Lee would have to make the same walk in the darkness. I grabbed a bite to eat and then sat in the room waiting and imagining the worst, totally needlessly as she walked into the room a few minutes later.

We quickly slipped back into our previous Kendwa routine and, after a couple of days, it was the night of the full moon party, the reason for our return. The Kenwa Rocks bar lived up to its name with dancing spilling over onto the beach as a local DJ treated us to the latest Bongo Flavas, hip-hop and R’n'B, none of which I was able to dance to, though this didn’t stop Lee forcing me onto the dancefloor to shuffle about self-consciously amongst the gyrating, and fragrant, local men who were gathered in a large circle and taking it in turns to show of their best moves in the centre. Highlight of the night for me was when the DJ suffered some sort of seizure and played Pulp’s Common People, immediately clearing the floor of all but a small number of white men of a certain age. I was sat on the sidelines sipping a mojito and so was spared the embarassment.

After wobbling off to bed in the early hours, we spent a recovery day on the beach swinging in hammocks, Lee nursing a terrible hangover which I seemed to have escaped entirely. We had a final fish dinner at our favourite restaurant and then spent a few hours sat around a large campfire, staring at the stars and reflecting on what a fantastic time we’d had. We got talking to a Canadian girl - who filled us in on the shocking news that a local man had been murdered at the party – and a couple of well-to-do English girls, one of whom informed us she was an artist and then sat squirming with embarassment as Lee, once more under the influence, interrogated her as to the style of her paintings, her influences etc. As the clock struck two, we stumbled back to the villa for the last time.

We had a final couple of hours on the beach the next morning and then shared a minivan back to Stone Town, killed a final few hours in the shops, collected a painting we’d commissioned from a local artist to mark our engagement, and then made our way to the port.

We were booked on the overnight ferry to Pemba, the smaller, less developed island about 50km to the north of Unguja, Zanzibar’s main island. We arrived in, what we thought, was plenty of time, a couple of hours before departure, to find the boat teeming with people. Failing to learn our lesson from the Lake Victoria ferry debacle, we’d passed up the chance of a cabin and opted for a seating ticket. By the time we’d boarded the only place to sit was the top deck with no seating and no cover. It looked like a total schoolboy error.

We found a secluded spot, tucking our bags beneath the blades of an enormous spare propellor lashed to the deck and huddled against it, wrapping ourselves in Masai blankets to escape the wind while a couple of locals tried to befriend/annoy us. As we got under way, the huge moon and brightly shining stars illuminated the sea and showed it to be as calm as a pond – perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

It was all going swimmingly well until about 3am when it started to rain. My heart sank and we desperately tried to find a way of keeping ourselves and our bags dry. Fortunately, the rain let up after only a few minutes and we were able to settle back down to sleep and, before long, we were pulling into the harbour at Mkoani.

We grabbed our bags and joined the throng heading for the gangplank. It was absolute chos with no quarter being given by anyone, as if everyone was trying to escape a sinking ship but without the women and children first rule. Lee saw an old man get pushed to the ground and slapped the perpetrator. We pushed, shoved and finally got onto the gangplank, a treacherously smooth board with small pieces of battening nailed to it instead of steps. The trick now was to push back against those behind so as not to fall down the gangway to the dock below. We managed to negotiate this and joined the crowd on the jetty jostling towards the exit. Our two young friends from the crossing were stuck to us like limpets, determined that the hours spent befriending/hassling us wouldn’t go to waste and they could secure a tip for assisting us.

As luck would have it, I’d emailed ahead to a guesthouse and the proprietor, Ali, was waiting for us with a sign saying “Gim & Lee”. We identified ourselves, not hard being the only mzungus on board, and he guided us through the hordes and out of the port. Our two friends were incensed, following Ali and harangueing him in swahili, their night’s work had gone to waste.

We followed Ali up the road to his guesthouse, chose a room and went straight to bed, rising only in the afternoon. We spent the remainder of the day planning the forthcoming week’s activities, took a walk round the village and then watched another glorious sunset from the hammocks on Ali’s terrace. After dinner we decided on an early night, no doubt influenced by our decision to have a week off the booze.

We had an early start the next day, taking a boat arranged by Ali out to Misali, a paradise island and marine conservation area famed for its diving. The boat anchored off “Coral Mountain” and we spent a wonderful hour or so snorkelling, seeing almost as much fish life and brightly coloured coral as I had on my scuba dives.

Next, we were dropped on one of the island’s beaches for a spot of lunch before following a trail across the island, through thick forest, to see a cave renowned among the locals for its voodoo properties – it just looked like a hole in the ground to me.

We eventually exited the trees at a stretch of pure virgin white powdery sand without a soul in sight, stretched out the Masai blanket and soaked up the silence. After a few minutes of sitting still, the beach started to come to life as dozens of crabs emerged cautiously from their burrows and what we’d taken as just shells sprouted legs and turned out to be hermit crabs. We amused ourselves for a while tormenting these poor creatures, who couldn’t move as fast as their burrowing cousins and elude our clutches, but no permanent harm was done.

Making our way back to the other side of the island, there was just time to follow a snorkel trail, mere metres off the beach, seeing sponges as well as the colourful fish and coral outcrops.

Without the lure of alcohol, we retired straight to bed upon our return. In the morning, Lee informed Ali that we’d changed our mind about a second, expensive, excursion up the coast to Watamu, site of a luxury resort complex. This was the point at which Ali’s attitude toward us changed completely and he stopped being the friendly, helpful host, eager to help and began to resemble none other than Mr Phuc, our Vietnamese nemesis of months previous.

We decided instead to wander down to the port and negotiated a deal directly with some fishermen to take us to Kwate island, a 45 minute boat ride from the harbour. The boat moored a hundred metres or so from the shore where the water was too shallow to continue and we scrambled across the reef to the island. We had the whole place to ourselves and spent a peaceful few hours wandering along the shore and relaxing on the beach. Once more, after a few minutes of stillness, the crabs started to emerge from their holes and we noticed for the first time that the sound we’d taken for birds cooing was in fact coming from them. It was mesmerising and, in the distance, the serene picture was completed by a variety of wading birds coming down to feed. Paradise indeed, but, all too soon, time to return to our bunch of friendly (Liverpool supporting) fishermen and head back to Mkoani. Back at the guesthouse, Ali informed us he was taking another guest up the coast the next day and we could get a lift too – for a price – we agreed and then turned in.

We clambered into the minivan after breakfast with a young South African and motored, through Chake Chake, the largest town on the island, to Kigomasha Peninsula in the far north and a guesthouse at Verani beach, a recommendation from Ali. We didn’t like it much and so we drove on to Manta Reef Lodge, a very fancy resort on the northern tip of the peninsula,and way too expensive for our budget. Ali was losing patience, obviously wanting to offload us. As we followed the road back, we came to Ngezi forest, another conservation area and habitat for black ververt monkeys. Ali asked if we wanted to stop and take the tour, we said yes and the South African said he would wait in the van – this wound Ali up even more and the penny dropped, he was charging the other guy for a tour of the island and so didn’t want to be hanging around waiting for us if we were the only ones wanting to see the forest. We paid for the forest tour and he started muttering something about being quick as he didn’t want to wait. Lee was straight in there “Is something wrong Ali, do you want some more money? I don’t understand, you don’t seem very happy”. Ali immediately backed down, clearly not wanting the South African to realise we hadn’t paid the full tour price.

We strolled through the forest with a guide we coudn’t understand and who absolutely reeked, nevertheless we took the opportunity to ask as many questions and take as many photographs as we could. By the time we got back to the van an hour later Ali could barely conceal his rage. We asked if we could be dropped off in Wete, a town on the way back, Ali said this wouldn’t be possible and that he’s drop us somewhere we could get a dala dala instead. Ta very much.

After a brief stop at Tumbe fishing village to watch the catch being landed and auctioned off on the beach, including seeing huge manta rays being carved into slices, we were deposited at a junction and pointed in the right direction. We didn’t have to wait long, jumping into yet another ridiculously overcrowded dala dala for the half hour journey to town.

We wandered about and then found a lovely little guesthouse run by the equally lovely Mr Sharif. We assured him that, yes, we definitely were married and then set off out again to grab some street food. The next stop was the dilapidated local cinema which was showing a Bollywood movie. We made our way into the cavernous auditorium and found a space in one of the rows of hard wooden flip down seats. The movie was hilarious, at least ten years old and featuring outlandish comedy fashions and hairstyles, typical plot involving action, romance and comedy, together with the obligatory large scale musical numbers. Best of all, it was in hindi and we had no idea at all what was going on – one of the best night’s entertainment we’d had in ages, not at all spoiled by the two power cuts.

Back at the guesthouse, sleep was elusive as our ears were assaulted by what sounded like a muezzin’s all night rave up, augmented by snoring from the floor above like rolling thunder.

We rose early and took another pair of dala dalas back to Konde, a village we’d passed through the day before, where we negotiated to hire a couple of bicycles. We took an hour or so to ride the 10km, through Ngezi forest, to Vumawimbi beach, constantly waving and shouting hello to passers by and being joined by a selection of other cyclists keen to practise their English, all of whom were incredibly friendly, but a little dull as they always asked the same questions.

The beach was yet another empty strip of paradise white powder and the sea was refreshingly cool to swim in after the long cycle. Soon it was time to turn back, we cycled a way down the beach and caused a stir amongst some local kids, then rejoined the path back to Konde and the stream of people wanting to know our names and where we came from. After dropping off the bikes we took another couple of dala dalas back to Wete, grabbed some more street food and retired for an early night.

Next day, we headed south to Chake Chake, a rather disappointing town with little to offer. On the poitive side, we found a hotel with a TV and spent the afternoon lazing beneath the fans watching trashy movies. A powercut sent us out in search of a restaurant with a generator and the power returned just as we were finishing our meal, allowing us to get back to the TV.

Determined to make more of our final full day on the island, we were up early and took a succession of dala dalas into the sticks, ending up at the fishing village of Kiwani. We took shelter from a sudden rain storm with a group of fishermen and struck up a conversation with an old man who we couldn’t understand and who couldn’t understand us. Nevertheless, we got on like a house on fire. As the rain stopped we negotiated a price and got into our smallest boat yet, a dugout canoe with a pair of outriggers. Our two fisherman guides paddled us through the mangroves beneath a merciless midday sun. I decided to treat them to some music and dug out the ipod and speakers, introducing them to Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze, SL2 – On A Ragga Tip, Basement Jaxx – Jump N Shout, Candi Staton – Young Hearts Run Free, Led Zeppelin – Whole Lotta Love, Michael Jackson – Beat It and, finally, Ned’s Atomic Dustbin’s classic Kill Your Television. They just ignored me and kept paddling.

Our destination was another island, Shamiani. They pulled up the canoe, we disembarked and followed a path through dull scrub and bushes, it was all a bit disappointing. However, after half an hour or so, we reached the far edge of the island and, cor blimey guvnor, a deserted white powdery sand beach with crystal clear turquise sea, oh yes indeed, stop me if you’ve heard this one before… We sat about for a while, took some pictures and soaked it all up, then made our way back to the canoe. Back on Pemba, we hiked a way up the road, chatting to the locals and being followed by a crowd of over-excited children shouting “Good Morning”, to which we replied “Good AFTERNOON” to no avail. Then it was back into the cramped confines of another two dala dalas and soon we were in Mkoani once more.

We had a pleasant dinner at Ali’s guesthouse, chatting to a Dutch couple who were also catching the ferry to Dar Es Salaam the next day, and had yet another early night.

After a long lie in and a hearty breakfast, we walked down to the port in plenty of time before the boat’s departure. Naturally therefore, the ferry was an hour late and we had to stand around in the blazing heat, no one being allowed into the cool shaded waiting hall. Eventually, the hydrofoil arrived and we were allowed to congregate at the dockside in anticipation of boarding.

The scenes echoed exactly the chaotic disembarkation of our previous ferry. We stood in a group with all the other wazungu watching in disbelief as AK-47 toting police failed to impose any order whatsoever and the throng of passengers all but hurled themselves down the gangway amidst boxes of consumer electricals, the overstuffed plastic checked laundry bags which seem to be ubiquitous whrever you go and, of course, our old favourite, the live chicken in a carrier bag.

After what seemed a lifetime, the boat was finally empty and it was time to board. Somehow this was even more chaotic. Ali had advised us that we should just go to the front of the queue as we’d paid the tourist price for the tickets and this was the done thing. Stretching away down the jetty were two huge lines, one of women and children, one of men, at least five hundred in total. And in control, one harassed looking policeman, bearing an uncanny likeness to Windsor Davies in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. As soon as the first person was allowed through the whole crowd surged forward. There didn’t seem to be any system at work, presumably the women and children had priority, there was no way of knowing. We stood in our group and, periodically, the policeman would indicate that one of us should duck under his arms – easier said than done with rucksack – and make our way up the gangplank.

Lee made it on and I stepped up for my turn, just as a woman in a red head scarf, carrying a baby, burst through the cordon and made a desperate leap for the gangplank. She was held back but started thrashing madly, lashing out in all directions and screaming at the top of her voice. Somehow she managed to break loose and made it up and onto the boat. I was given the signal, squeezed my way beneath Windsor’s sweaty armpit and clambered aboard, stepping over the woman in the red head scarf who was lying prone on the deck with a crowd of people attending to her.

I located Lee and we managed to secure a pair of seats in the air conditioned cabin – result – then I quickly made my way to the refreshment counter and bought a bag of samosas, some chocolate bars and, oh joy, I’ve missed you my little cold friend, several cans of, mmm, beer.

The journey took six hours as it went via Stone Town and was as bumpy as hell. Four hours in the samosa/chocolate/beer combination stopped seeming like such a great idea and I started to come out in a cold sweat. Lee procured some plastic bags just in time and I spewed the contents of my stomach into one. It was surprisingly heavy. Lee described the rest of the cabin at that point as resembling a cholera epidemic. People were chucking up all over the place, bags of sick were emptying their contents all over the floor as they were cast aside, the sound of retching filled the air and the smell was awful.

Not a moment too soon, we reached port, waited for the scramble to subside and then staggered off the boat, grabbed a taxi and headed for a hotel. We’d discovered the day before that Tanzania were playing Mozambique in Dar – a crucial African Nations Cup decisive group game, their best chance to qualify for the finals in thirty years. The upshot of this was that all the hotels were full. We ended up miles out of the centre in a, not too, shabby place, forced to pay for a suite – not a suit, as Lee tried to explain to the receptionist. The good news was that I was able to recline on the sofa and watch a full replay of England’s victory against Israel.

The following day we took a taxi into the city centre and, it being Sunday, found it deserted and everything closed. We made our way instead to Msasani Slipway, an upmarket shopping complex and expat haven. Here we indulged in haircuts at a posh salon and then I was able to satisfy a craving I’d been carrying for months and tuck into roast beef and yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings – get in.

An early night followed and then we set off back into the city centre the next morning. Everything we tried to do seemed to be foiled or be a complete hassle, we couldn’t walk down the street without being surrounded by hawkers, it was all too much after the serenity of Zanzibar – there was nothing for it, we made straight for a travel agents and booked ourselves on the express train to Zambia for the following day.

We took further refuge that evening in an Irish pub, drinking Guinness and scoffing sherpherd’s pie and bangers and mash, then scribbled wedding plans on the back of a fag packet before coming joint last in the pub quiz, happy days. Our final hours in Dar the next day were spent in the post office, dispatching three enormous parcels containing souvenirs (novelties), presents and all our cold weather gear from the mountain, including boots, reducing our pack weight by half.

Once more we made sure we made it to the station with plenty of time to spare before the 4pm departure and sat in the cavernous departure hall for a couple of hours before we spotted a blackboard informing us that the train departure had been delayed to 8pm, one final kick in the teeth.

And so it was that the fateful day finally arrived.

Having trawled Arusha the previous afternoon for final essential supplies – chocolate, high calorie snacks, glucose energy drinks, a couple of extra warm layers and yet another pair of sunglasses for Lee (her sixth of the trip) – we were finally ready. Naturally, I had dyed my hair bright red.

We made our way to the office to sort out the finalities with Pantsuit Snr (wearing his classic navy two-piece short sleeved number with the tribal trim) – this entailed handing over large wads of dollars, Tanzanian shillings, travellers cheques, coloured beads, tokens etc in a scene highly reminiscent of every drug deal you’ve ever seen in the movies. It’s not that the trip was particularly expensive, more that the Tanzanians could do with adding a couple of extra zeros to their banknotes so that they’re worth more than a few pence each. Oh, and that sticker on the office window that says we accept Visa, Mastercard, American Express? What that actually means is that we accept cash that you’ve withdrawn from the ATM in town with any of those cards.

Nevertheless, by mid morning we were ready to depart. As the equipment was loaded onto the bus, we were introduced to our companions for the trip, our head guide Rasta and a trio of Irish twentysomethings – Shane, Ronan and Niamh – all fresh from several months of charitable work in a Masai village and who’s only decided to take on the challenge the day before – impressive. Like me, Shane had realised that challenges such as this should not be attempted without the right hair and was sporting an impressive Travis Bickle mohawk.

Finally, ready to depart the hotel, we climbed aboard the bus full of optimism, but tempered with undoubted trepidation. We then spent a couple of hours driving to various shops around Arusha so the guides could pick up food supplies and other bits and pieces and the rest of us could sit on the bus and complain about why they hadn’t bothered to do that beforehand.

Eventually we really were ready for departure and set off on the road towards Moshi, the journey uneventful as we all sat in nervous introspection, ipods blaring (Pixies natch) and staring out of the window in quiet contemplation, save for a brief stop at a police road block to make way for the president of Tanzania’s motorcade to sweep by. Taking our cue from the locals, we waved dutifully at the great man and he waved back, which was nice.

The next stop was at the village of Machame to pick up some fresh meat and then we really were at the gate and unloading. While Rasta sorted out the dozen or so porters with their ridiculously oversized loads, we sat nervously munching a picnic lunch, tying and retying boots, tightening pack straps, trying to work out how to fit gaiters, adjusting walking pole lengths and a hundred other minor details to take our minds off the wait.

Next we queued at the gate office to register and then Rasta stepped forward to pay the gate fees. As it turned out, this was a long drawn out process as the authorities insisted that Sarah write her life story on each of her individual travellers cheques and Rasta had to fill in a log giving the serial number of each dollar bill handed over. The rest of us milled about, getting to know the Irish contingent and generally grumbling about the delay.

At just after 3pm we were allowed through the gate and onto the trail, starting at an altitude of 1500m. The path led through dense rainforest and was quite steep in places, but the endless faffing we’d endured so far that day meant that the pace was high as we were all eager to get going. Nick, Sarah and the Irish lot raced off, but Lee and I took things a little more gently, nevertheless we had soon worked up a decent sweat.

We caught up the others at the frequent breaks to take on water – we were all being fanatically dedicated to staying hydrated – and the resultant stops to pass it, and then, after an hour and a half or so we took a group rest with Rasta informing us we were at the half way point. This was very pleasant news indeed as we hadn’t found the going too strenuous, maybe this wouldn’t be so tough after all? It was just at that point that we saw our first mountain casualty, a young, healthy looking man being led down by a porter and looking like the living dead, we all averted our eyes and tried not to think about it.

A couple more hours of quick trudging along the muddy path brought us out of the lush green forest and to the end of the day’s trail – Machame camp at an altitude of 2980m. The guide books all say that this distance is 18km – I find that hard to believe considering we covered it in around three and a half hours and it was all uphill – suffice to say it was a very nice feeling indeed getting the first day under our belts and reaching the sanctuary of camp.

After signing another register, we located our corner of the wooded campsite and were delighted to find that the tents were already pitched and the kettle was on. The campsite was crowded with other groups, all of whom had started several hours before us. We pottered about arranging our bits in the tents, changing out of sweaty clothes and adding warm layers as the temperature dropped with the setting of the sun. Above us there was still no sign of the peak, just a large mass looming above us shrouded in thick cloud.

We gathered in the dining tent – sounds glamourous yes? – a slightly larger domed tent with folding chairs, and tucked into coffee and tea. The hot drinks added to the buoyant spirits and there was a general feeling of optimism seeping through the group – except for Ronan who was as white as a sheet, a slightly green tinged sheet, perhaps one that hasn’t been changed for quite a long time.

The wonderful porters served up an equally wonderful dinner which we all tucked into heartily – except Ronan who made a quick exit from the tent and headed straight for some nearby bushes where we could hear him violently throwing up – not good. We got him dosed up on paracetamol and then, after Rasta had run through the plan for the next day in his wonderfully understated way – “Oh yes, tomorrow is very easy, very short walking” – we all headed for bed. Sarah, Nick and Lee tucked themselves up into their lovely -20 degree arctic sleeping bags and I crawled into mine – provided by the trekking company – a nasty nylon monstrosity from the 1970’s with the thermal qualities of toilet paper. That’ll be me sleeping in my clothes all week then.

We awoke with the dawn, not that I’d actually had much sleep in the cold conditions, and the sounds of activity throughout the camp as a couple of hundred people from various groups and countries dragged themselves from their tents to greet the sunlight. The day was started perfectly as Steven, our allotted porter, brought us tea and coffee to the tent, followed by a bowl of hot water to wash in. Once again we convened in the mess tent and were served a fantastically comprehensive breakfast of fruits, toast, sausages, omelettes and the like, together with several more cups of tea and coffee, prompting us to marvel at the culinary skills of the porters in such basic surroundings – a sentiment we were to echo pretty much repeatedly at every mealtime. Fortunately Ronan was feeling much better and in a fit state to continue.

Amply fed and watered we spent a final few minutes preparing for the day’s trek – I bound my feet in tape to head off the blisters – and then, leaving the porters to pack up the camp, we set off for Day 2, the target Shira camp at an altitude of 3840m.  After a short while, we left the forest behind and on through an area of moorland. By now everyone was better acquainted and there was a bit more team spirit flowing through the group. The Irish kept bursting into traditional song in a not at all stereotypically jaunty fashion and we kept ourselves amused with jolly games such as listing famous actresses we would like to sleep with, top comedies, worst films, names of Simpson’s characters etc., oh how we laughed.

Unlike the previous day, we were now able to see the various other groups on the trail, regularly stepping aside as the porters, often carrying two packs, culinary and camping equipment hanging off their backs, shoulders and balanced on their heads, jogged past, seemingly oblivious to their huge burdens. Unfortunately, we were able to smell them too – fragrant.

With a brief stop for a packed lunch under our belts, during which we were amazed to see other groups being ridiculously mollycoddled with huge folding picnic tables and chairs, we passed out of the moorland and started to traverse a rocky ridge towards the Shira plateau. By now the group had spread out a little and I was walking with Nick and Shane who were engaged in a titanic ethical ding dong – Nick’s classic American libertarianism, the product of the finest US business schools and banking institutions, versus Shane’s youthful radicalism, honed through years of selfless volunteer work including a year in Gaza – right on – I sat back and watched the fireworks, contributing only when I could think of something incredibly pointless to say. A little way back Lee, Sarah and Niamh were talking about knitting or something, I expect.

By early afternoon we’d reached camp and there was little to do but carry on hydrating – four litres a day equates to a toilet stop approximately every twenty minutes or so, leaving the girls frequently complaining at the lack of adequate cover – and staring up at the mountain above us, still shrouded in cloud but with the summit threatening to peek out at any moment, Shane ramped up the political atmosphere by adorning his tent with a Palestinian flag, Lee and I retired to our tent to have an argument about something inconsequential, Sarah told Rasta he had a beautiful face and we all took the piss.

Another astonishing meal was rustled up in the mess tent, a stunning sunset lit up the mountain like a postcard and then we just stood staring as the stars came out, the clouds finally cleared and we got our first breathtaking glimpse of the peak. This led Sarah and Nick to argue vehemently over the terms of a bet they’d made about whether the cloud would clear that day and whether that included after dark – value of bet? roughly twenty pence. With a stalemate reached on this big question of the day we returned to trance-like gazing upwards and saw shooting stars and satellites passing overhead. Rasta took this opportunity to brief us on the following day’s climb – “This is medium day, not too much walking” – Time for bed. Alas, sleep proved elusive, not just for me freezing in my hopelessly inadequate sleeping bag, but for anyone else within a half mile radius of a group of Christians camped nearby who felt it necessary – I jest not – to sing Kumbaya around the campfire until the early hours of the morning. Thanks. For. That.

Day three’s target was to be Barranco camp at an altitude of 3950m, only a measly hundred odd metres ascent you may say. Alas, to get there we had to go via the Lava Tower at an altitude of 4630m, the idea being that your acclimatisation is aided by reaching the higher altitude and then coming back down to sleep lower.

We set off early after another hefty breakfast, the mood more serious – even the morning drinks and hot water, brought to the tent by the wonderful Steven, had failed to offset the grumpiness caused by relentless repetition of He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands. Someone enquired as to the availability of lions on the mountain.

The landscape by now had become lunar-esque,  as we trudged “pole pole” (slowly slowly)  up the steep incline. We marched stolidly for hour after hour up through the rock field, only deviating from the path intermittently for the frequent, indeed growing more frequent by the day, pauses for bladder relief. The girls began to complain more and more about the unavailability of suitably large rocks to use for cover, a point borne out simply by looking back down the hill where people were clearly visible dotted about all over the place conducting their business seemingly unaware that they could be seen from above.

It was also at this point that people began to gleefully point out that my hair dye had begun to run, surly this wasn’t the first time I’d broken sweat on the mountain? Nonetheless, I was to spend the rest of the day mopping attentively to avoid looking like I’d suffered some sort of serious head injury.

Eventually, after a particularly steep ascent, we reached the lunch stop and huddled behind sheltering rocks to try and get relief from the howling winds. Banter had by now fallen by the wayside and some members of the group were beginning to develop a thousand yard stare, a manic disposition as extra layers, gloves and hats were donned and teeth gritted for the assault on the lava tower. Still, we were doing better than members of some of the other groups, one teenage boy in particular was stumbling along in front of us looking like death warmed up, yet his guides and fellow group members seemed oblivious to his difficulties. In contrast, Rasta and his assistant guides, Simon and August, couldn’t have been more attentive, constantly checking to ensure everyone was ok, advising us to slow the pace or rest and generally keeping us in a fit state to continue.

Pushing on, Rasta promised us “only a couple more hours” – a blatant lie – we carried on up an even steeper field of boulders, mist swirling around us, until we finally reached the highest point of the day, the Lava Tower. By this point Sarah was looking in a pretty bad way and the Irish hadn’t done any singing for a very long time. They all opted to carry on and start the descent to camp straight away with Simon to lead them. Lee, Nick and I decided to take the opportunity to summit the tower itself with Rasta in attendance. This was a bit more of a climb rather than a walk and care and concentration was needed to prevent a nasty fall. The effort was amply rewarded though as we gained spectacular views down over the side of the mountain with its glacier formed gorges and huge lava rock formations. Far below us, a dense layer of cloud obscured the base of the mountain and the plains beyond. Indeed, throughout the trek, whenever one looked back it was always slightly unbelievable to see just how far we’d climbed.

Scrambling back down to the path, we quickly caught up with the others, our pace increased by the proximity of the dreaded Christians, whose jaunty singing could be heard rolling its way down the valley towards us. By this time Shane had fallen heavily and twisted his knee and Sarah was very pale and feeling nauseous. Nick and Lee also found the descent hard going and slowed down as the going got steeper.

I, on the other hand, felt pretty good, a little tired but eager to get to camp and found the descent fairly easy. I trooped off at a good pace, accompanied by Simon and leaving the rest behind. I made camp just over an hour after the tower, found our tents, waved to the porters, changed into dry clothes and pulled up a chair to gaze expectantly up the trail where I felt sure the others would appear imminently.

One by one they trudged dolefully into camp, the first appearing about half an hour after me, the last a full hour after that. Sarah went straight to her tent and only came out again whenever she needed to vomit or pee, which was quite often. Whenever we passed her tent we’d ask how she was doing and be answered by a weak, other worldly voice “not good”. The porters attended to her every need, administering their miracle cure of ginger tea and paracetamol and taking her plates of food that she couldn’t eat.

The rest of us hunkered down in the mess tent and were soon acquainted with a major setback. Alas, our tardiness in leaving that morning had delayed the porters to the extent that they’d reached camp late and been left with a bum deal when it came to pitching the tents – directly downwind of the latrines. As dinner was served, we had to continually cover our noses so as not to inhale the awful smell, the toilets were swiftly christened “the bogs of eternal stench”.

Within a few minutes it had all got too much for Nick, who’d looked quite pale and not a little crazed for most of the afternoon. A strong waft of nastiness billowed into the tent and he bolted, showing an impressive turn of speed to reach some bushes and projectile vomit. He retired to his tent soon after and was soon receiving the magic ginger tea paracetamol healing cocktail.

The plight of these two prompted the rest of us to start tucking into the rehydration salts but, despite all this, Shane, Niamh and, particularly, Ronan kept our spirits high throughout with their incredibly dry, self-deprecating and uniquely Irish humour – questioning why they’d decided to put themselves through this ordeal, speculating as to what point they’d keel over and be unable to continue. With evening drawing in and energy levels low, it was time for Rasta to deliver another of his deadpan untruths – “oh, tomorrow, not so hard, not so long” – and then we retired to the tents to listen to Nick’s chainsaw snoring, interspersed with violent puking.

Sarah, meanwhile, was lying shivering in her -20 sleeping bag, wondering if she was going to make it and intermittently struggling out of her tent for the inevitable wee. Apparently she finally started to feel better around around 3am, squatting behind a rock, when she gazed up and saw the clear star studded sky and the mountain, once again, shook off its skirt of cloud and revealed all its glory.

And so to day four and the ominous Barranco Wall which had loomed over us all night, a huge imposing rock face which we’d stared at in trepidation since Rasta had casually pointed out that it was to be the day’s first obstacle. Sarah and Nick reported fit and raring to go, testament to the restorative properties of their special tea, and we got off to a good early start. Unfortunately, so did everyone else at the camp and the sheer rock walls became a Piccadilly Circus of porters, equipment and, seemingly, brainless trekkers.

The route up the wall itself, although treacherous, was not too technically difficult, but the ascent was continually complicated by the sheer number of people trying to climb at the same time. Established mountain etiquette dictated that we give way to porters, who had heavy loads and could climb much faster, but some (mainly American!) trekkers would try to take the opportunity to pass as well and tempers became frayed at times. Throughout, our group stuck to the pole pole mantra. With Rasta, Simon and all in attendance radiating calm and peacefulness and we were soon at the top and appreciating the finest views yet in the crisp morning sunlight down over the rocky mountain slopes.

With this huge obstacle conquered and lunch taken, we then plodded on, down through the Karanga Valley, a seemingly endless descent where every corner would reveal another endless stretch of rocky scree to be negotiated. The final section of descent entailed crossing a stretch of rocks made slippery with a rushing mountain stream. Nick was the first to attempt the traverse and made us all recalibrate our focus as he made one wrong move and fell heavily. It was growing increasingly necessary to concentrate and keep our wits about us – at one point Lee began to panic about having lost her sunglasses, only for us to point out she was wearing them.

Finally reaching the bottom of the valley, the day’s final hurdle lay before us, another frighteningly steep ascent to a ridge towering above us, upon which we could see the camp perched. One by one we dragged our exhausted bodies up the gravel strewn hill, eventually reaching our target, at altitude 4550m, more than eight hours and 13km after setting off. On this occasion the porters had reached camp in good time and our tents were awaiting us in a prime location on the upper side of the vast sprawling camp, leaving us slightly less of the difficult rocky terrain to cover on our summit attempt.

We flopped out in the mess tent as we were brought hot drinks and, yet another, astoundingly good meal. Rasta came to brief us and an intense discussion broke out over the plan of action. Our options were to take a rest day and go for the summit the following night, or go for it that night and have the possibility of a second attempt if we were unsuccessful. In Sarah’s words a “testosterone frenzy” ensued and so it was agreed that we would go that night. Rasta advised us to prepare our kit and get to sleep as soon as possible, we’d be awoken at 11pm and leave at midnight.

I donned all the clothes I’d brought, save for the outer layer, and bedded down. Sleep again proved elusive, unsurprisingly, as it was only about 7pm and we had a lot on our minds. I managed to get a few hours, some, like Sarah, got as little as one, leading to state of confusion resulting in an extra sock being worn on one foot, causing severe discomfort as the climb progressed.

Finally the appointed hour came.

Jerked back into consciousness, my first feeling was one of overwhelming, unremitting dread, that I simply didn’t want to do it, Lee readily concurred. Nevertheless, we dragged on our waterproof top layers, tied boots and gaiters, downed energy drinks, packed supplies of drinking water and snacks and then crawled out of the tent to join the others.

Despite the hour, there was plenty of light, a bright full moon casting its milky glow upon us and illuminating clearly the monstrously imposing shape of the mountain above us. With the minimum of talking, we made final checks and adjustments and then commenced the slow trudge upwards, ever upwards in the footsteps of the Rastaman.

Above us we could see a trail of lights, the torches of the trekkers further up the path, marking the way and showing just how far there was to go – our ascent would be 1345m, 7km of relentless, monotonous, snail paced trudging.

A couple of hours in and people were already starting to feel the combined effects of the lack of oxygen, low residual energy levels and the strength sapping qualities of the surface scree. At one of the frequent toilet breaks, Lee became disoriented, agitated when the rock she was squatting behind turned out to be right next to the trail and a group of other trekkers nearly fell over her as they came past. She began calling out to me to bring toilet paper, almost in panic, and then, when I was slow to arrive, getting tearful. She rejoined the group and then started to shout out that her pack was missing, demanding to know who’s moved it. Once more, we pointed out that she was wearing it. She confronted Rasta, confessing to feeling angry and emotional, voicing the doubts we were all feeling. Fortunately, a long hug and a shoulder to cry on from me seemed to do the trick and she was ready to continue.

The rest of us were faring no better, to be honest, my only motivation for keeping going at that point was simply not wanting to go all the way back down again and have to do it all all over again the following night, plus a certain little plan for the summit that I’d had up my sleeve for several months. Niamh was fighting back the tears, Ronan was white as a sheet once more, Nick, Sarah and Shane grim faced and silent. Still, we gave each other as much encouragement as we could muster and Rasta was masterful in his control of the group, appointing his assistants to look after particular members, relieving the females of their packs and always encouraging us to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, pole pole.

Over the next several hours we carried on plodding, meditating on the hypnotic effect of the slow pace, focusing only on the footsteps of the person in front, trying to place our feet in the same places. We rested frequently, taking on water and as many calories as we could, all the time keeping our own doubts and negativity to ourselves and trying, instead, to lift and encourage the group whilst avoiding eye contact with those that hadn’t been able to make it from other groups as they were escorted down, looking like ghosts, with alarming regularity. As we gained altitude and the temperature dropped, feet, hands and the water began to freeze and we were forced to bash plastic bottles against rocks in an attempt to get the contents out.

Six or so hours in we were in a wretched state and commencing the hardest part of the climb, a steep field of ankle deep scree that took back three quarters of every step taken in a heart breaking theft of morale. By this point I had entered a strange alternate reality and christened my trusty Masai omilileek, which I was using instead of walking poles, Sir Sticky Stickford of Sticklesex. Fortunately, it was also at that point that the first signs of the dawn began to show on the distant horizon away to our right. As the sun gradually broke through and illuminated the mountain above and clouds below, it seemed to infuse us with new determination and I was moved to announce that I knew we’d all make it now.

But the scree was never ending. Although we could see Stella Point, the false summit, above us in the distance, the end of the steep ascent, it never seemed to get any closer. The casualties seemed to be coming down thick and fast now and our group had started to deteriorate. Lee, Ronan and Niamh were all physically sick, Nick seemed to have retreated into himself and was exhibiting the vacant stare of a shell shocked combat veteran, Sarah was just trudging in a wordless trance and Shane was lurching about like he’d been on the devil’s buttermilk.

Simon offered to drag Lee up the final stretch by her walking poles, telling her once she’d reached Stella Point she’d have conquered the mountain, it was hers, galvanising her for the final push and driving her onwards and upwards.

After eight hours of sheer hell, one by one, we dragged our bodies up through the evil scree and over the lip, onto the flat of Stella Point – the hard part was over.

We slumped against rocks which provided completely inadequate shelter from the vicious cold winds whipping across the volcanic crater. Rasta and his assistants served us with tea – no coffee – ARSE! – and then they began to gently coax us into the final effort. Lee was steadfastly refusing to go on, but I was insistent, telling her there was no point at all in coming all this way and then not making it to the summit proper. Obviously, I had an ulterior motive in my pleadings.

After ten minutes or so of rest, we were finally able to drag ourselves off the ground and make the final, hour long, trudge to the top of the mountain. This proved to be the most picturesque part of the journey as we passed spectacular ice formations and glaciers. The sun was fully up by now and everything was infused with a wonderful clear light, the sky above us a deep turquoise blue, the ice glistening jagged blue white crystalline formations, the seven of us looking like zombies, white faced and haggard, stumbling on to our goal, ignoring the panoramic view across the bowl of the crater, a massive expanse of virgin white snow with titanic, equally white cloud formations in the distance behind.

Finally, at 9.07 am, the summit was attained, a tatty looking sign proclaimed we had reached Uhuru Peak, 5895m above sea level, Africa’s highest point and the world’s highest free standing mountain. Even more amazing, we’d all made it, a testament to Rasta and his team’s fantastic professional guiding – by comparison, the Christians had started with twenty one at Machame gate and seven summited – “where is your God now eh?” somebody muttered.

As the rest of the group collapsed in a heap around the sign and tried not to fall asleep, I tried to sort my head out and gather my composure. Then I tried to grab Lee and get her to focus on me long enough to hear what I had to say. This was easier said than done as she was almost completely incoherent and staggering about like a drunkard. Finally, I managed to get her to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds and dropped to one knee, my hands resting upon her shoulders.

Instantly, the well rehearsed speech describing what she meant to me and conveying accurately the depth of my feelings for her was lost and my mind went completely blank. All I could manage to utter were the words “You’re an amazing woman Lee Smith, will you marry me” (weeks later we discovered this was almost word for word the proposal at the start of Team America, oh how we laughed).

I waved a box with a ring in it that I’d managed to pick up in Mumbai when Lee was otherwise engaged and then burst into tears, the emotion of the whole thing way too much for me to handle. Lee followed suit and, for a seemingly endless moment, we just held each other tightly, our bodies racked with huge sobs and tears rolling down our cheeks.

“Well?” I demanded. Lee managed to get just enough composure together to indicate the answer was in the affirmative (presumably resisting the urge to punch me in the face as she’d, presciently, told Niamh she would if I was “stupid enough to propose on the top of this bloody mountain”) and I slipped the ring onto her finger and then we just stood there holding each other with the rest of the group completely oblivious to what had just happened.

Eventually, the world started turning again and we were thrown back into reality. We rejoined the others and stood posing in front of the sign for photos. Around us, the rest of the group looked like refugees from some sort of natural disaster, unable even to force a smile at their moment of triumph. Shane managed to unfurl his Palestinian flag and Ronan made a grim faced entry into his video diary, describing the horror of the previous hours in a low, shaky voice.

Without further ado, it was time to begin our descent and we staggered off, retracing our steps towards Stella Point. Nick raced off into the distance and each time I turned around the rest of the group seemed further and further behind.

Back at the lip of the abyss, Nick and I slumped to the ground and waited for the others to arrive but found it impossible to stay awake. Rasta, concerned at the effects of the altitude, advised us to carry on downwards, assigning Simon to lead us. It didn’t feel right leaving Lee to follow behind having been engaged for under an hour but Rasta insisted we couldn’t hang about.

We started striding down the loose scree, picking up speed and generating huge clouds of thick grey dust. Within a few minutes, I turned to look back and seemed to have lost everyone else in the mist.

Consumed by mountain madness, I decided there was nothing else for it but to carry on down. All I wanted was to get off the cursed mound of rock and back to my tent as quickly as possible. Soon I was taking huge bounding strides, bouncing my way closer and closer to the sanctuary I craved. Periodically I would pause to take great heaving breaths, my altitude crazed mind desperately searching for landmarks and praying I was on the right path.

After an hour or so I caught up with another descending group who confirmed I wasn’t lost, the guide asking me where the rest of my party were, “I’ve lost them” I declared, suddenly realising just how stupid I’d been in doing so.

At 11.15am, just as hail stones began to fall, I crashed into camp, waved weakly at the porters huddled in the mess tent and dived into the waiting luxury of my own little home.

Inside, I thrashed around like some sort of dervish, trying desperately to remove all my clothes in one go and getting tangled to the point of immobility. After trying a more measured approach, I was finally able to remove the sweat soaked layers and crawl into my wafer thin sleeping bag. Within minutes I was shivering with cold and forced to put some of them back on as I had nothing else to wear. This achieved, I collapsed and blessed sleep took me in her tender arms.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group were making more measured progress down the mountain, Lee and Shane vomiting again, everyone unsteady on their feet and on the verge of collapse. As it started to rain, and then hail, Lee reverted to the state of a small child, explaining to Rasta that she simply couldn’t walk any further and would need to be rescued, Rasta just calmly repeating that she would walk to the camp in the same deadpan voice we’d all become accumstomed to.

Two hours on the dot after me, Lee weearily scrambled into the tent and we held each other tightly, unable to believe all that had happened in the previous hours. Lee confirmed that all the others had made it  and we drifted into unconsciousness together.

Sarah had apparently only made it as far as taking her boots off and awoke hours later half in and half out of her tent.

Rasta had originally anticipated that we would have a couple of hours rest and then continue down to a camp at around 3000m. The group unanimously thwarted this course of action and it was decided instead to do the full descent the following day.

Lee and I didn’t leave the tent until the following morning, managing only to eat a little soup which the lovely Steven brought us. Lee was unable even to find the energy to go further than the tent’s porch when nature inevitably called.

All too soon it was morning again and, after possibly the deepest sleep of our lives, we rejoined the others for breakfast and to swap tales of the previous day’s exploits. By now the news of our engagement had spread through the group and we were offered congratulations from all, together with the inevitable jokes about catching Lee when she was too confused to say no etc etc.

After breakfast, we sorted out the porters’ tip and donated unwanted equipment to them. They performed a traditional song and dance in return and then we all posed for a group photo before we started the plod down.

The long and winding road from the scene of our triumph seemed to take forever. One by one the Irish crew were gripped by the same madness that had taken me twenty four hours earlier and they ran off ahead, disappearing into the distance, leaving us for dust. The path made its way from the lunar boulder fields, back through moorland and then down into dense scrub and shrubbery, steep in places and requiring stern concentration, taking its toll on knees and ankles.

After the longest two hours of our lives, we reached the hut at 3000m and queued to sign the register. Here we met a minister who performed weddings at the summit but didn’t consider availing ourselves of his services for a moment, knowing it would be impossible to convince anyone to attend. From there we were back into the verdant greenery of the rainforest again, among huge ancient trees covered in vines and creepers and hearing birdsong for the first time since day one.

Lee and I walked alone, ahead of Nick and Sarah, accompanied by the ever-smiling Steven who encouraged us in our final efforts to reach the elusive gate. Just as we were despairing ever reaching it, and freedom from this self-imposed torture, Steven indicated it was around the next bend and it was all we could do not to break into a sprint. Instead, we just held hands and wallowed in the sense of achievement as we strode into the car park.

Shane, Ronan and Niamh were in a shelter in the far corner of the car park in various states of undress and full of jubilation. We all hugged enthusiastically, ignoring the smell of five days without a proper wash, and joined them in changing into dry clothes and finally casting off our heavy boots. Nick came strolling out of the jungle shortly after and was followed by Sarah moments later, collapsing on the benches with smiles as wide as sunshine.

We quickly procured some ice cold beers (what else?), Steven providing one last valuable service as he stepped in and negotiated a less ludicrous price. All that was left was to purchase exhorbitantly priced, low quality commemorative T-shirts and make our final entry in the register to confirm we’d finished alive. Rasta handed us all official certificates to mark the achievement, which, we were slightly disappointed to find, we had to fill in ourselves, and then we climbed aboard the bus and got the hell out of there.

On the bus, we carried on our celebration, Nick and Shane had a final dust-up over the morality of foreign owned coffee plantations and then Ronan sang a beautiful traditional Irish song to Lee and I to commemorate our engagement. Soon enough, we reached Moshi and were dropped at, supposedly, the best hotel in town, fitting reward for our efforts. Finally, we shared genuinely emotional goodbyes with Shane, Ronan, Niamh, Rasta, Simon, Steven and the rest.

We luxuriated in the hot shower, washing a week’s worth of grime and stench from our bodies, bagged up all our clothes for the laundry and then reconvened in the bar to drink toasts to our achievements long into the night.

Truly, an amazing experience, by far the hardest thing that any of us had ever done, but totally rewarding. We were so lucky, both in sharing the company of Sarah and Nick, who both travelled vast distances especially for that reason and, with whom, the laughter never stopped, and also the Irish contingent, Shane, Ronan and Niamh, who proved to be the finest mountain companions we could have wished for, a true credit to their nation with their endless good humour and real spirit.

We couldn’t have been better looked after by Rasta, Simon, Steven and the rest of the guides and porters. They managed to carry ridiculous loads, conjure magnificent meals out of nowhere and display infinite patience and professionalism to get all seven of us up and down the mountain in one piece – believe me, we saw the shoddy treatment of other groups who were evidently paying more than us (metal picnic tables and chemical toilets!!!) yet were clearly not receiving the level of personal care we experienced. Our guys were head and shoulders above the rest – we owe you a huge debt.

Finally, I owe an even greater debt to my dearest betrothed, the fantastic Lee who, not only battled her way to the summit of a mountain she never wanted to go anywhere near, but consented to become my wife when she got there, despite a lack of oxygen and clearly being in a confused state of mind. Like I said, you’re an amazing woman Lee Smith.

I never ever, ever want to climb a mountain again.

The first morning of our five day safari odyssey was mainly taken up with the drama of Sarah’s lost pack. Alas, progress was not forthcoming and the girls returned from the airline office empty handed, save for a, not entirely convincing, promise that it would, eventually, be located. And so, after some last minute faffing and running around for malaria tablets, contact lenses and knickers (oh, and a couple of crates of beer and several bottles of wine), we climbed aboard the great green Land Cruiser, with driver Omi and chef Daniel, and drove to our lodgings near Lake Manyara.

On the way we caught our first clear site of Mount Meru’s peak and then crossed golden plains dotted with Masai villages and cattle herds being driven to fresh grazing and then, dropping the luggage in our rooms, we ate a quick packed lunch and made for the park.

Within a few minutes we’d seen various impala and a selection of birds and were treated to several family groupings of elephant, ranging from giant tusked bulls to small babies sheltering beneath the bellies of their mothers. After further sightings of black ververt monkeys, red arsed baboons (some in quite alarming states) and bush buck, several giraffes strolled gracefully past – they’re my favourites.

We got caught at a Land Cruiser bottleneck for half an hour as each vehicle took turns to watch a leopard asleep in the crook of a distant tree branch – when our turn finally came, we were rewarded with a brief glimpse of its tail and hindquarters, yet were not disappointed.

Moving out of the jungle onto the plain, the lake shimmering beneath a daunting distant mountain curtain, we spotted warthogs, zebras, pelicans and flamingos, prompting squeals of excitement, as each new specimen was identified in Nick’s handy safari spotter’s handbook, not unlike those of, say, a group of four year old children.

Time and time again we came upon new groupings of elephants, bathing in mud pools, tearing down foliage or simply walking down the road toward us. A few final sightings included buzzards, storks, Nile lizards and the wonderfully named Kirk’s Dik Dik.

It was hard to believe we’d seen so much in so little time, but all too soon it was approaching 6pm and time to make our way out of the park. As we rounded a corner on the exit road, we were suddenly confronted by a large bull elephant, clearly agitated, trumpeting and waving its trunk ominously. We reversed up the road and out of sight but it kept following us and then, just as we were starting to wonder just how much protection our vehicle provided against such a huge, angry creature, it stomped off into the jungle leaving a trail of devastated vegetation in its wake.

We returned to the lodge and spent the evening recounting the days events excitedly over cold beers, with Nick, the only one of us with safari experience, promising greater things to come. The evening was further boosted with the news that Sarah’s bag had been found and would be waiting for her on our return to Arusha, and was then rounded off, after dinner, with a display by some local acrobats which can only be described as mediocre.

The following morning was taken up with the long drive to the Serengeti, passing up and around the mist cloaked peak above the Ngorongoro Crater. After a few hours, we stopped at a Masai village, situated in the middle of a vast empty plain. I grasped my trusty omilileek, the Masai warrior stick I’d purchased a few days before, and we approached the village welcoming party. A group of warriors began a traditional dance, you know the jumping up and down one from BBC1, while a group of women sang trill ululations. We were then welcomed into the village, with my stick causing a great deal of interest and, of course, stick envy from the other warriors. We were given a tour of the village, the inside of a boma mud hut and informed about the traditional way of life – including the amazing fact that the Masai do not include water in their diet, drinking only fresh cow’s blood.

It was then time for us to be subjected to a period of intense hard sell of jewellry, carvings, “Lion’s Teeth TM”, knives, spears, pretty much anything in the village that we might want to part with money for that wasn’t nailed down. The chief’s son, supplementing his traditional garb with Bono style wraparound black shades, was stuck to me like glue until I was forced to, literally, buy the blanket from his back – it smelled strongly of goat.

Fully laden with our new purchases – Sarah with so much jewellry she resembled a Masai Mr T, Nick with a vicious looking club and a “Lion’s Tooth TM” necklace, we were then shown the village school where a series of tiny tiny snotty nosed children dressed in rags jumped up and recited English numbers and alphabet, prompting all of us to well up like big girls.

Finally, it was time to depart – the chief’s son proclaimed I was now a true Masai warrior and, more importantly, that Nick was not – we jumped aboard our not quite British Racing Green safari machine and continued on to the gates of the Serengeti, passing on the way ostriches, more giraffes and Grant’s and Thompson’s gazelle.

At the gate we ate lunch surrounded by flocks of semi-tame Superb Starlings and Red Billed Quetea, and then carried on into the Serengeti proper. As Omi barrelled along the dusty roads of this vast grassy plain, we stood watching vigilantly from the roof hatches and screaming like ladies of a certain age at a Take That reunion concert whenever a new species was spotted.

After getting wildly overexcited about seeing hartebeest, topi and zebra, we finally had justification for our shrieks as we came across three lionesses. The first was sat languidly atop a distant mound, but the other two were resting in the shade of a large tree not far from the side of the road. We stopped for a while to see if they would do anything and then, when no action was forthcoming, Omi jumped out of the vehicle to try to see if they’d react to a few rocks carefully lobbed in their direction. Still no movement was apparent, leading to speculation that we weren’t the first to try the rock lobbing tactic and that the lions were actually unconscious with serious head wounds.

Next stop was a large stagnant pool of water full of hippos. We stopped and stared, they did nothing but give the occasional yawn and we all found it very hard to believe that they kill more humans than any other animal on safari and can run something like 35 km/h. Nevertheless, we didn’t chance it and Omi didn’t throw anymore rocks.

We carried on racing through the park, needing to reach the gate at the far northeast corner by 6.30pm. This deadline came repeatedly under pressure as we screamed for Omi to stop when we saw wildebeest, bat eared foxes (oh yes), spotted hyena and row upon row of vultures perched in trees and very much resembling their Disney counterparts – from Robin Hood? – but without the musical instruments. We were also treated to a full scale baboon fight, with a large dominant male taking on a couple of young pretenders and, if you’ll forgive me, kicking their scarily malformed backsides.

With the sun setting in a glorious spectacle of red, orange and purple, we finally reached our evening’s destination and were delighted to find we were to be housed in a wonderfully kitsch 70’s style safari lodge bedecked in animal hides and skulls, oversize leather furniture and a wonderful mock-tudor style bar area – Ron Burgundy would have been truly in his element. Time, obviously, to relax with a cool tasty beverage and trawl the animal handbook for all those obscure breeds of bird we hadn’t had time to identify during the day – Red Billed Buffalo Weaver, Hildebrandt’s Starling, Fischer’s Lovebird, White Browed Sparrow Weaver – boring? ok then, how about the Kori Bustard, the largest flying bird on the planet then?

The hotel manager showed us to our rooms for the night – a pair of sumptuously appointed double rooms with large four poster beds and luxury bathrooms. Alas, we were to be foiled. Sarah and Nick had known each other less than 24 hours and so it was not deemed appropriate that they share a four poster – I couldn’t blame her I didn’t fancy sharing the four poster with Nick either. The manager came to the rescue and offered us three more modest rooms so that Lee and I could share and Nick and Sarah wouldn’t have to, sighs of relief all round. A pleasant dinner and some more tasty beverages ensued, together with the decision to get up at 5am in order to make the most of the following day – the drink talking surely?

Nevertheless, at 5am we were at the breakfast table, at 5.30 Omi and Daniel made an appearance, and at just after 6 we were banging on the gatekeeper’s door demanding to be let into the park. We drove across the plain in the early morning sunlight, watched by the same rows of vultures, and caught early sightings of zebras, hartebeest, warthogs and ostriches, Omi making for the famous Grumeti river where thousands of wildebeest run the gauntlet of waiting crocodiles on their annual migration.

Soon we were in the midst of an amazing spectacle – literally thousands of wildebeest and accompanying zebra, marching in huge long lines through the scrub in their instinctive search for water, the zebra breaking the the morning silence with their distinctive honking call. And then suddenly we were at the river and confronted with an awesome sight, a lion and lioness sat on the river bank with a freshly killed wildebeest. We pulled up the Land Cruiser just a few metres away and settled in for the show. Nick was panting with excitement, having spent the previous days recounting his exploits on previous safaris and announcing he was only interested in seeing the big predators with their kills.

We sat on the roof and watched in wonder as the lion sat in the shade, yawning, while his mate buried her muzzle inside the carcass, pulling out the bulging stomach and tearing it open. A large pool of foul looking digested vegetation spilled out onto the dirt and the lioness then picked up the carcass and dragged it a few feet away before continuing to root around inside. Omi explained what we were seeing, she really was cleaning the carcass and preparing the lion’s meal for him in true domesticated fashion – cue sexist jokes from Nick and I. We were entranced, three of us having never seen anything like this in real life before, I was half expecting Sir David to pop out from behind the bush and provide a breathlessly excited commentary. As the lioness tucked into her part of the meal, we could hear bones crunching loudly, and we weren’t the only ones – in the trees above vultures looked on expectantly waiting for their opportunity to get a piece of the action.

The blood, guts and gore were all over the place, but we just wanted more, Sarah – confirmed vegetarian and yoga practitioner – couldn’t get enough, loudly proclaiming she wanted to see small fluffy animals being killed and ripped to pieces by large scary ones.

Then, just as we thought we’d seen the best, the two lions repaired to a shady spot and began to mate – we’d hit the jackpot. Omi explained that in this, the mating season, the lions paired up away from the pride and copulated, on average, one hundred times a day. We whistled in admiration, Nick and I looked at each other in astonishment and then at Sarah and Lee, who seemed to have a wistful dreamy look in their eyes.

The lion may well be able to get it on one hundred times in a day, but I’m sorry to report, ladies, that the whole thing lasted about twenty seconds, and seemed to involve quite a lot of snarling and the odd slash of claws across the muzzle. Foreplay? I think not, though each time they went for it, I couldn’t resist singing the the chorus of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On”.

We spent a couple of hours watching this pair, really getting an insight into the interplay of animal life all around us. As the lions ate, copulated, rested, the wildebeest and zebra continued massing ranks around us. Intermittently, groups would cross the river, and then dash in all directions in panic as the crocodiles pounced from beneath the water. At the same time the lions were playing an hilarious repetitive game with the vultures who would creep forward, in a cartoon fashion, when the lions were distracted to try and get a bite of the wildebeest carcass. Then, when they’d advanced too close, the male lion would come running powerfully over, roaring and flashing his teeth to scare them away.

After a while another male lion appeared, skirting the area and clearly wanting to try his chances with either the carcass, the lioness or both. For a moment we thought we’d get the ultimate spectacle of two male lions battling it out – Sarah could barely contain herself at the prospect – but the intruder turned out to be a bit of a coward and it only took a few loud roars and the baring of the teeth to see him off. For a while we followed him at a distance as he skirted around the massing wildebeest and zebra to see if he’d make a kill of his own, but lost him in trees.

After a picnic lunch in a, supposedly, “safe area” – no fences or armed guards, safe how exactly? – we spent some time watching the crocs in the river – the stench of rotting wildebeest was atrocious, apparently they like their meat to “age” for several days before they consume it. There were further sightings of baboons, a multitude of bird species and, best of all, some close encounters with giraffes – ok, so not as exciting as the lions, but I just think they’re cool.

We finished the day with a final visit to our romantic lion couple, who by this time had a crowd of about a dozen cars surrounding them. Still, you have to give them credit, they didn’t seem to mind the audience and were still getting it on every twenty minutes or so. At one point, a hare broke cover just beside the lion and bolted past him, narrowly missing a swinging paw and certain death – Sarah beat the roof of the car with her fists in frustration.

After such an exciting day and eight hours of intense sunshine, it was time to repair to the lodge. We made a detour to a local town to pick up food supplies for the following day and then got hopelessly lost trying to negotiate the maze of dirt tracks back, I blamed a lack of clear signage – something the manager later denied vehemently.

After taking on some cold refreshment, we sat and watched a breathtaking sunset before retiring to scrub up for dinner. A pleasant meal was partaken and then Lee retired, while Sarah, Nick and I demolished a couple of bottles of decent red beneath a spectacular canopy of the brightest stars I’d ever seen and put the world to rights.

When the alarm went of at 6am it was clear that I was still feeling the effects of the wine. I watched the others eat breakfast and then we were back into the car to retrace our route through the park to Ngorongoro while I entertained the troops with, erm, pure comedy gold. We checked back to the Grumeti river but there was nothing going on so continued on our way, through the enormous herds of wildebeest, passing zebras, impala, ostriches and finally seeing another of the big five, a group of buffalo, complete with forehead ox pecker adornment.

We were also treated to a sighting of a group of hyenas – no one else liked them but I just think they’re misunderstood cos they’re not as cute as the big cats – and, best and rarest of all, the deadliest snake in the world, the black mamba battling a snake eagle – we immediately had to close all windows and hatches as the snake squirted venom all over the place and then entertained ourselves by saying “black mamba” over and over again in a variety of silly voices.

By mid-afternoon we’d made it to the campsite overlooking the Ngorongoro crater. We found tents already pitched for us, tossed a coin and Nick and I got the better one, the girls were not gracious in defeat. My hangover was in full effect by this time and I couldn’t wait for bed – Daniel knocked us up another of his superb meals and we ate in a large communal shed with all the other campers and then turned in early. I’d like to say I slept deeply and soundly but, alas, Nick snores like a fornicating lion and so it was a long cold wait for morning.

But, finally, morning did come and, once again, we were up obscenely early in order to be in the crater gate as it opened at 7am. We wound our way down the steep side of the crater, through layers of thick mist and then, suddenly, the crater floor came into view – a stunning, almost garden of eden-like, enclosed habitat with a large lake, forests and pastures – even from high up on the side we could see herds of gazelle, wildebeest and zebra.

As we reached the floor of the crater, we toured around the lake and watched waders and waterfowl feeding – storks, heron and flamingos – and then stopped as a pack of hyenas crossed the road in front of us on their way to drink. Moving on, we stumbled across a couple of lionesses and, stopping to watch through binoculars, realised they had several tiny, cute cubs playing around them.

After more buffalo, ostriches and hippos, we pulled up next to another Land Cruiser who was watching something about fifty metres from the road. We caught a glimpse of yellow fur and black spots and then binoculars confirmed we’d found what we’d been hoping for – a pair of cheetahs, a male and female – back of the net! The excitement was palpable as we stood in the roof hatches and impatiently passed the binoculars from one to another. The pair were sat motionless in semi-long grass and, best of all, gazing studiously at a group of impala grazing in the distance. The impala obviously knew they were there as they had lookouts on the edge of their group staring straight back at the cheetahs – a classic standoff.

Over the course of the next hour or so, we watched the cheetahs watching the impala watching the cheetahs, desperately hoping that something would happen. By this point Sarah was almost hysterical, demanding that an impala be sacrificed to assuage her bloodlust. I’d like to say we all found this distasteful, but to be truthful, we were all hoping that one of the cute furry bambi things was going to get its throat ripped out by these ferocious killers.

Finally, after a seemingly endless wait, during which we’d been joined by about ten other vehicles, the cheetahs made their move. The male slowly and cautiously got up and started to slink towards our car – I couldn’t resist it “It’s coming straight for us!” – we looked on in amazement as it strolled to the side of the road, literally two or three metres from us, completely ignoring the hordes of watchers and the machine gun clicking of cameras, it skirted our car and followed the path of the road.

In breathless silence, we stared as the male worked his way slowly toward the rear of the group of impala. The female was still motionless and the impala lookouts didn’t seem to have spotted the male. All of a sudden he made his move, dashing out from cover and flying towards the impala.  As one they bolted in panic, and ran full tilt toward the waiting female. For a few glorious moments we saw both cheetahs in full flight, unbelievably quick and graceful, they pursued the group and we could see one small impala lagging behind. In an instant the female was upon it, catching its back legs with a sweep of the paw to bring it down and then both were all over it, sinking teeth into its throat. We watched them feed for a while, adrenaline still pumping hard from the thrill of the chase, we couldn’t believe our luck.

Finally, it was time to leave. We made our way back to camp and packed the Land Cruiser for the journey back to Arusha. All we could talk about was the chase and kill we’d just witnessed, we were stunned.

About an hour outside Arusha we ran out of petrol. We didn’t bat an eyelid, nothing could depreciate our excitement. Omi soon found some fuel and we were back on our way again, reaching Arusha in late afternoon. Back at the hotel, Pantsuit Senior was there to greet us and informed us that the hotel was full, but that we were booked into his other, nicer hotel – bonus.

We scrubbed up, Sarah regained her luggage and we met up again for dinner – deciding that we were in no fit state to commence Kilimanjaro the following day. Pantsuit Snr dropped by and was happy to delay by a day. Nick, Sarah and Lee took up Omi’s invitation to visit his home and meet his girlfriend – apparently she was overjoyed at this, spending the time they spent there studiously texting.

We spent the following day pottering about Arusha, generally lazing and getting mentally prepared for what was to come. In the evening, we shared a pizza dinner at a nearby restaurant and all refrained from drinking and then turned in for an early night, each of us silently contemplating the spectre of Kilimanjaro which loomed over us like, well, like the highest mountain in Africa.

The alarm went off at five and we dragged ourselves out of bed to discover there was a power cut. Outside the rain poured down torrentially. A 6am bus to Rwanda you say? Huzzah!

Our taxi dropped us down to the bus station and we ran through the deluge to find our ride, bags were thrown into the hold and we clambered aboard. My heart sank.

Lee had obviously felt the need to compensate for the luxury of the previous bus from Nairobi to Kampala – where that one had had three comfy armchairs per row, this one had been stuffed with five narrow threadbare seats, the business class legroom had given way to knee wedgery of the highest order, the man in front had a live chicken in a carrier bag.

And so we rattled thusly, crossing the equator for the third time in three days, passing lush tea plantations and through wide savannahs, until we reached the border around mid-morning. We shuffled off and into the exit queue, then on through no man’s land to the entry queue. We were soon stamped in and heading back to re-board the bus when we noticed that all of the bags were being unloaded and piled up on the tarmac. Our fellow passengers milled around looking bored while a group of young men without uniforms began opening the bags and examining the contents.

We asked a spectator what was going on and were amazed to discover that plastic carrier bags are not allowed to be brought into Rwanda – each bag on the bus was to be searched and all carrier bags confiscated.

Quirky rule, you may be thinking. Very environmentally sound, no doubt. All we could think of was that, as seasoned backpackers, we had hoarded plastic bags from everywhere we’d been. A quality carrier was something to be used and re-used – laundry, keeping books dry, a convenient way of storing and finding things within the cavernous recesses of the pack – we were filled with horror.
It came to my turn and I opened the lower section of my pack, the border guard made me pull out the contents and relieved me of several bags including the high strength duty free number I’d kept my boots in and four virgin black refuse sacks brought from home. The carnage didn’t end there – next I had to open up the lid pocket and my reserve stash was uncovered, I felt like some kind of criminal scum as he pulled out a carrier bag that contained nothing more than a dozen other carrier bags of varying sizes – was I some kind of plastic bag dealer? I opened the main compartment of my pack, fearing the worst, but the guard must have lost interest as he only gave the contents a cursory inspection, completely failing to look beneath the T-shirts and find the bags containing my books and various other essential supplies. My bag was passed and loaded back into the hold. I returned to my seat and watched Lee go through the same process. The women in the seats in front laughed uproariously as she was made to empty and hand over her laundry bag, I looked across the aisle and saw another lady serruptitiously retrieving her stash from under the headrest cover of the seat in front, our eyes met and we shared an incredulous look.

Finally, the searches were complete and confiscation appeared to be the only penalty, we were under way again and suddenly climbing through green mountains.

We reached Kigali in the early afternoon and hopped in a cab which wound its way up into the centre of town with country music blaring from the radio, giving us panoramic views of the city sprawling up and out over the surrounding green hills, and then lied to the receptionist of a nice hotel, convincing him we were married in order to be permitted a room.

We took a stroll out to get our bearings and found the office where we were to pick up our permits for the gorillas – it was closed for two days. We wandered on, trying several establishments before finding a restaurant which was still serving food, then headed back to the hotel to relax.

Alas, Kigali at the weekend appeared to be devoid of life. No doubt there was plenty going on somewhere, but we were unable to find it – we hunkered down in front of CNN with room service and waited for Monday morning.

We were at the permit office first thing and, after only a couple of hours of ineptitude, faffing and the payment of yet more money, we eventually left with the paperwork that would allow us to track the mighty mountain gorillas.

We spent the afternoon at the Kigali Memorial Centre, where we were graphically explained the story of the 90’s genocide. Like the Killing Fields of Cambodia, it was a harrowing experience, the fact it was so recent and that the rest of the world had failed so miserably to take the opportunity to intervene made it all the more poignant and depressing. Outside, a funeral was taking place of recently discovered remains, driving home the fact that this is a community still dealing with the ramifications a decade or so later. Upstairs there was a further exhibit telling the stories of other genocides of the twentieth century – no mention yet of Darfur, but give them time.

Heads wrecked, we retired to the hotel.

Next morning we crammed ourselves into another over-burdened matatu and were jostled and squashed for several hours as we passed through beautiful mountains to reach Ruhengeri. Once there, we found a hotel, ate and turned in, then another 6am start saw us collected from reception in a decrepit pick-up and driven to Kinigi, headquarters of the Parc National Des Volcans, home of Diane Fossey’s legendary gorillas in the mist.

We loitered around the office as the various other groups turned up, some fat lesbians, a family with a pair of sullen teenage sons who refused to appreciate the enormous amount of money their parents were spending on them, retired couples in pristine outdoor gear, overweight men with excessive quantities of camera equipment they could barely carry. Our driver asked us whether we had any preference as to which group we wanted to visit. I said I’d rather not be around sulking teenagers with silly fringes, but he said he meant which group of gorillas.

We plumped for the Susa group, the largest with 35 members, but the most remote – we may have to trek several hours into the mountains to find them – all good training for Kili, we thought. We’d assumed this would be a popular choice but, surprisingly, hardly anyone else seemed to want the exertion and we were joined for our briefing by only an elderly Spanish couple and an overweight American. Our guide ran through the rules of acceptable behaviour and filled us in on a bit of gorilla behaviour and some detail on the Susa group’s members – plus handy trivia such as that a gorilla’s nose is as unique as a human fingerprint.

We clambered into our ride for the hour or so drive to the start of the trek. Naturally, it was then that our driver clobbered us for an extra $25, on top of his already ridiculous fee, as the Susa group is “a bit further to drive to”. We reached a village after an hour or so and the cars were chased by hundreds of children screaming for gifts. Soon we came to a halt as it became apparent that our “4-wheel drive” vehicle, which we’d been assured was “absolutely necessary to reach the start of the trail, and that’s why it’s so expensive” was no such thing and completely unable to get up the muddy track. We were decanted into the guide’s Land Cruiser and were soon being dropped at the head of the trail.

From there we spent a pleasant hour and a half strolling gently up the foothills of the volcano, through the terraced fields being worked by villagers, ignoring the constant cries of children demanding money, until we finally reached the dry stone wall marking the border of the park. From here it was a mere twenty minutes before we were met by the tracking team of armed guards and vets who monitor each group at all times and protect them from poachers. We dumped our bags, grinned at each other with anticipation and made our way in complete silence the final few metres in the footsteps of our guide.

Suddenly, we found ourselves in a clearing and in the presence of a pair of gorillas, male and female, they sat eating clumps of natural celery and completely ignoring us. It was a moment charged with electricity as we all struggled simultaneously to contain our excitement, crane our necks for a better view and reach for our cameras. As we watched this pair, both yet to reach maturity but still enormously powerful, we were gradually aware of more and more presences in the surrounding forest.

After a short while we were able to maneuver around the pair and the rest of the clearing came into view. We counted seventeen gorillas, ranging from a tiny baby, two days old, which the mother was keen to show to us according to the guide, to an enormous silverback, the alpha male. It was this male who demanded our attention with his sheer size and bearing, the ominous sense of enormous power in repose which could be unleashed at any time, yet he was the least active, munching distractedly on some roots as he kept a watchful eye on all of the group, most notably the young male we’d first encountered who, we were assured was testing the silverback’s patience being in such close proximity to a female.

Some youngsters tumbled about in higher branches and fought in mock battles, the older gorillas simply tore up the undergrowth and munched contentedly, ignoring our invasion. Not alot else happened but our visiting hour was over in an instant and we were all in a state of ecstatic rapture, scarcely able to believe we’d been within a few short metres of these amazing creatures, able to watch them go about their business almost impervious to our invasion.

As we returned to collect our bags we were breathless, back over the park wall we were able to pause for a bite to eat and discuss the morning’s events, but they already seemed like a dream. We all agreed it was one of the most amazing things we’d ever experienced and then set off back down the hill in a state of euphoria.

At the bottom we were again mobbed by kids, this time demanding our plastic bottles, then fighting amongst themselves to be the one to keep hold when the bottle was given, how quickly we were back in the real world. We were given certificates by our guide to commemorate our achievement (presumably being able to afford the permits) and then we were driven back to town to grab our bags and catch another matatu.

We bought our tickets and had time to grab some lunch before the minibus showed up. When it did, it appeared to be completely full. We spent an interesting ten minutes as the driver attempted to open the boot with a hammer and a screwdriver. He finally gave up and somehow squeezed our packs into unfeasibly small gaps below the seats. He then squeezed us into unfeasibly small gaps on the seats and slammed the door shut before anything could fall out. It was a rather uncomfortable three hour ride to Gisenyi, made worse (or better, depending on how you look at it) by the exhaust fumes, which seemed to be piped straight into our faces and made it hard to stay awake.

Disembarking, there was a lack of cabs and so we climbed, fully packed, aboard a pair of motorcycle taxis and made for, the attractive sounding, Hotel Palm Beach – “a rambling old colonial-era house, the rooms here are spacious and comfortable” – Lonely Planet. Reaching our destination, we discovered that Hotel Palm Beach was now a derelict colonial-era house which didn’t appear to have been open in a good long while, thanks again LP. Somewhat bemused, we made our way along the pretty lakeside and came upon a fancier alternative, somewhat out of our normal budget but we were tired and it had been a long day. Ah, room service, yes, cold beer and ludicrously priced microwaved food if you please, it’s been a hell of a day and there’s a rolling news channel to watch.

The following day we were able to sleep late before taking a leisurely walk along the beach on the lakeside. We strolled into another fancy hotel to pay silly money for lunch and watch some Americans being loud. I left Lee lapping it all up and made my way to the local internet cafe to do some blogging. Alas, foiled again, the place had weird keyboards which appeared to be some kind of bizarre French layout – no qwerty, impossible to type on, I couldn’t even find the “@” symbol to access my email – this was something we’d never encountered even in China, I thought the whole world used a standard keyboard, apparently not. There was nothing for it but to repair to the hotel and catch up on world events with CNN.

Later, we took a walk along the shoreline in the other direction, reaching the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo - had a look, it seemed alright - then turned back and popped into the White Rock bar to watch a pleasant sunset descend over the lake and sip a cold one. As darkness descended, we strolled back to our hotel bar to take excrutiatingly priced gin and tonics and cable TV.

The next day we retraced our steps in yet another boldly overloaded matatu, back through Ruhengeri to Kigali and back to our previous hotel. Next stop was a handy internet place to get the latest word on our rendezvous with a certain American gentleman of dubious repute.

Last seen making his way to Lijiang airport with the mother of all hangovers, Nick, who had trekked Tiger Leaping Gorge with us some three months earlier, was due to meet us the following day, having done his own gorilla trek in the Congo. Alas, the news was not good, he had been further delayed and it would now be Sunday before he made it to Kigali.

We were less than thrilled to be staying an extra day in Rwanda’s less than vibrant capital. I know this because Lee expressed this disatisfaction almost perpetually for the rest of the evening.

Nevertheless, we were up and about reasonably early Saturday morning and deetermined to find something to do. The streets of the centre of town, which we’d found to be pretty quiet pretty much all of the time, were even more eerily quiet than usual. Taxi drivers that we were normally beating off with the proverbially tipped stick were suddenly impossible to locate, absolutely nothing was open.

Nothing.

We finally tracked down a taxi and made our way to the bus station to enquire about onward travel to Arusha in Tanzania. The ticket office was also closed, no buses were running and a crowd of people were waiting patiently in the morning sun. A kind gentleman explained that the buses would start running in the afternoon and that the day was some kind of public holiday for spring cleaning. Very strange. None the wiser, vis a vis buses to Arusha, there was nothing for it but to purchase some over-sweet pink sparkling wine (which turned out to be almost undrinkable, but you need a change from the beer every now and then) and retire to the room and lovely informative CNN.

Lee was overjoyed.

We were woken the following morning by aforesaid American on the telephone to tell us he was on his way - “I’m literally on my way” he said and estimated he’d be with us around eleven. Lee expressed her feelings at this news and I tried to get back to sleep. The telephone rang again around eleven, Lee answered “Oh hi Nick, yeah lovely to hear from you, oh, one more hour you say? OK then, no problem.” I said nothing.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man, and, yea verily, he came. And his first words were to compliment me on how much weight I’d lost (YES!). And he brought a luxury air conditioned people carrier driven by the lovely Sheba. We made a brief stop to collect a huge bag of samosas and then, picking up where we left off in China, decided to buy a few beers for the journey.

Sheba made great progress and so did we with the beers, soon having to stop to replenish our supplies, as we caught up and compared notes on the gorillas, rafting and our travels in Africa. Nick was equally smitten with the continent and it was great to see a familiar face and recount our exploits.

Within a few hours we’d made it to the border with Tanzania and it was time to say goodbye to Sheba and our luxury ride. We walked through the barrier and up the hill, crossing a raging river, and found our way to Tanzanian customs. Having been stamped in, changed a little money and replenished the beer supply, we negotiated a ride in the most clapped out Toyota I’d ever seen and soon found ourselves in the border town of Benako.

We quickly found a lovely, tiny guesthouse, the cheapest we’d stayed in at two pounds a night, yet spotlessly clean and run by the nicest old geezer, and then went to explore. The village consisted only of a few buildings along the side of the road, seeming only to exist to service people crossing the border, trucks lined the road while drivers took some rest. We established that we could get a direct bus the next morning to either Mwanza or Bukoba, both passing through on their way from Ngara.

We found a small restaurant and were treated to a delicious local meal which cost virtually nothing, then we made our way over to the only bar in town for some liquid refreshment. We decided that we’d go for the bus to Bukoba, a slight detour up the side of Lake Victoria that would enable us to catch an overnight ferry to Mwanza instead of going straight there, an attractive proposition in our state of inebriation.

Nick and I took to the pool table and were soon surrounded by, what seemed to be, the entire village, all anxious to watch this clash of the titans. Nick took me apart comprehensively, I blamed the combination of the huge audience, the large amount of alcohol consumed and the fact that the table’s surface resembled a mogul field and had more roll than, well, something very, er, roly.

Nick confirmed this by being hammered by a twelve year old local boy, who then proceeded to do exactly the same to me, we never stood a chance. We retired to our table and more beer, before, finally, all the lights went out in the village and it was time for bed. We stumbled back to the guesthouse to discover the lovely old man had waited up to give us our keys, he really was very very lovely.

Seemingly moments later it was time to get up for the bus. We purchased our tickets and loitered at the roadside. A bus pulled up and people piled on, it was the Mwanza bus. We continued to loiter for another ten minutes before the ticket salesman informed us that the Bukoba bus had been completely filled at Ngara and so would not be stopping for us. This was not good news.

The ticket man advised that our only available course of action was to take a matatu which was going part of the way and then change. Conveniently, there was one waiting. It continued to wait for another two hours, every now and again driving up or down the road a few yards so we wouldn’t get bored, I was so glad we’d got up so early. Finally, another matatu pulled up and a horde of people got out and then got into our one, we were finally full enough to depart.

After only a couple of hours of intense discomfort, we were deposited by the side of the road at Lusahunga, where the road to Bukoba forked off and a sign informed us we had a further 200 odd kilometres to go. It was now midday and I worked out we had to make an average of 22-ish kilometres an hour in order to reach our ferry before departure. It seemed feasible, yet the doubts were already creeping in.

After an hour of waiting, a car stopped and gave us a ride to Biharamulo. On the way it picked up some small children and they sat in the boot staring at us. Lee carried a small girl in a pink dress on her lap and we practised swahili from Nick’s phrasebook on her but she was so shy we couldn’t hear any of her answers.

At Biharamulo we were shown the only matatu departing that day for Bukoba – it was on a jack with the front nearside wheel off and a group of men stood around scratching their chins. We booked our places and made for the cafe for some lunch. Within twenty minutes they were ready to leave, despite being not completely over full. This was remedied ten minutes up the road as twenty more people were picked up. Nick and I watched incredulously as the whole minibus was emptied and the driver attempted to fit all the new people’s luggage in, speculating on the revolutionary effects on Tanzanian public transport the invention of the roof rack would have, if it ever made it. A mere half an hour later we were back on our way, Lee had managed a cushy middle seat, Nick and I hunched together in the dreaded back seat, the matatu the most overloaded yet. We decided a valium would help.

The clock continued to tick as the kilometres sped all too slowly below us. The driver had to stop repeatedly to jack the bus up and remove the front wheel and adjust something which, presumably, kept coming loose. At each stop our co-passengers would desperately try to flag down alternative transport, shouting gleefully, if they were successful, as they disappeared into the distance. We’d been warned that this area of Tanzania was “bandit country”, hence the AK-47 toting guards on each matatu and the regular road blocks. At one stop it became evident we were no longer in “bandit country” as the guard flagged down a pickup with his AK-47 and joined the exodus. We didn’t complain, it made more room for those of us who remained.

The Lonely Planet had promised tarmac road from Biharamulo to Bukoba – this was a complete lie. In fact, there was a tarmac road being built the entire way from Biharamulo to Bukoba but it didn’t look like it would be finished anytime soon. As we bounced and shook our uncomfortable, cramped way along the dusty track we cursed you Lonely Planet, we cursed your name with all the foulest and vilest words we could think of, but deep down we were cursing ourselves for having watched that direct bus to Mwanza drive right off without us at seven o’clock that morning.

Some 70 kilometres from Bukoba we pulled into yet another small village but were this time all told to get out. It seemed the problem with the wheel was just too serious and the matatu would not be carrying on. The driver agreed to give us a partial refund and promised there would be another matatu departing imminently. Just to keep our spirits up, the little old lady I’d been sat next to all afternoon informed me that the ferry left Bukoba at 6.00, not 9.00 as the Lonely Planet advised, so we didn’t stand much of a chance of making it anyway. Ta for that.

A battered minivan pulled up beside us and said it was going to Bukoba. The doors were opened and the little old lady barged me out of the way and claimed the middle seat for her and her friends. Lee, Nick and I were squeezed into the back seat, then some more people were crammed in, then we waited a while and some more people were squashed in. The driver raced along at nutcase speed, screeching to a stop next to anyone waiting at the roadside to see if they wanted a lift, invariably they did and were then rammed into some vacant nook or cranny.

Eventually, exhausted, we finally reached Bukoba. A passer-by thought we had probably missed the ferry, but we decided to check the docks just in case. It had been a long day, we were all tired, the taxi took us to the docks, we confirmed the ferry had left – at 6.00 – and then deposited us at the welcoming Spice Beach hotel. Then the taxi driver demanded $15 and we realised we had forgotten to negotiate a price in advance. We felt violated but coughed up and dragged our sorry backsides inside.

The rooms were nice and cheap and, better still, we soon found ourselves sat on the hotel’s beach, overlooking the moonlit blackness of Lake Victoria beneath a wondrous canopy of stars. As we supped our cold beers and reflected on the muppetry of the day, the manager, Faustin, joined us and extolled the virtues of Bukoba. Since the ferry ran every other day, we would now have two days to enjoy it. At that moment we didn’t care that we’d missed the boat, Bukoba seemed lovely and, as Faustin reminded us literally every 30 seconds for the next hour or so, we’d received a special discount rate on the rooms, he just needed to confirm it with his “supervisor” in the morning.

Predictably, next morning, the “supervisor” declined to honour the discount rate we’d been promised by Faustin, but allowed us to have breakfast included in the higher rate. We cursed Faustin as we munched on the inadequate breakfast and then wandered into town in the hope of finding a proper cup of coffee and some edible food.

Lee and Nick spent the day checking out the happening sights of Bukoba while I banged out some more blog, we rendezvoused back at the hotel for a cold one and then made our way to a neighbouring establishment for a slap up meal and more liquid refreshment. Next day I finished the blog post and hooked up again with Lee and Nick late afternoon for some food before our taxi was scheduled to collect us to take us to the ferry. The taxi never showed so we flagged down another and raced to the port and were then deposited in amongst the chaos, a horde of local people crowding before a small gate, waiting to board.

The reason for the change to the published ferry departure time had been that the normal, twin propped ferry was being refurbished and had been replaced with a single propped, much smaller boat, which needed longer to get to Mwanza. This new boat had only two cabins which were booked up months in advance. We had therefore only managed to obtain second class seating tickets. As a veteran of several overnight cross-channel ferries, I was wary, but we had little choice.

We made our way to the front of the queue in classic “stupid tourist” mode in case there was an outside chance we’d get waved aboard before the gates opened, alas no go. We made our way to a waiting area with seats and hung out with a Belgian brother and sister who’d been staying at out hotel, was it us or did they seem just a little too close?

After a while there was a sudden surge of movement and we were waved in the direction of the gates. People were piling through as fast as they could, sprinting towards the boat in a giant scrum of bodies and luggage. We made it aboard and up the stairs to the second class seating area. Naturally, there was not a seat left that wasn’t occupied or which didn’t have a bag or other item reserving it. Three crusty looking girl backpackers with seats laughed at us as we stood about like lemons taking in the hopelessness of our situation.

I wandered through a doorway and up some stairs and soon found a load of vacant seats on the open top deck – I plonked my bag down and raced to get the others. We sat smugly as the deck filled up and people started having to sit on the floor. At 6.00 on the dot the anchors were weighed and we pulled out into Africa’s largest lake whilst being treated to a glorious sunset. A man sold us some beer and we settled down for the ride.

After an hour or so we pulled into another port and the deck was inundated with insects, they swarmed beneath the lights in a solid cloud, even the locals looked a little alarmed.

People started to bed down, the temperatures dropped and the lights were switched off. As Lee dozed, Nick and I watched Team America on my ipod, disturbing the sleeping with our muffled laughter. Later, we just sat quietly, trying to shield ourselves from the icy winds, it was impossible to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, we were just too cold.

Eventually, around 7am, we pulled into Mwanza, two and a half days later than if we’d opted to get on the bus in Benako. We found the bus station and were promptly informed that we’d missed all the buses to Arusha for the day. We wandered around in the hope of finding a ride, discussing the options – plane, train, hire a car? A particularly insistent bus tout kept hassling us, babbling about the 4am bus, we kept reiterating that we wanted to leave that day, not stay overnight, but he kept persisting.

Finally, the penny dropped, the bus departed at 4am swahili time of course. Nick vaguely remembered reading about it, apparently the swahili clock starts at 6am, and so 4am would equate to 10am our time – simple. We were still deeply suspicious but followed the tout to his office, asked some more questions, pointed to our watches, held up fingers and, still not totally convinced, handed over the cash for the wonderfully named Spiderbus.

We were then herded to a taxi and told we would be taken to the bus, immediately contradicting one of the promises we’d been made. Shortly thereafter we were deposited at another bus station and our bags were loaded onto the Spiderbus, which, unsurprisingly, was red and covered in a spider-web pattern exactly as you’d expect.

We had time to grab a quick coffee and stock up on a silly amount of samosas. Lee and Nick bought some hard boiled eggs which turned out to be rotten. We had a pee and boarded. My heart sank again.

Once more there were five thin, uncomfortable, seats to a row with insufficient legroom – the journey to Arusha was via Nairobi and would take 24 hours. We were all a little tired, a little snappy. Let’s leave it at that.

At about 6am the next morning, after a freezing night as the bus rattled its way out of Tanzania and back in again at lunatic speed, with windows that shook in their frames and wouldn’t close properly, the endless cold draught combining with the boneshaking and bouncing to make sleep impossible for the second night in a row, we were deposited by the side of the road and told we were in Arusha.

We jumped a taxi and made for a nearby swanky hotel to treat ourselves to a slap up breakfast. Feeling slightly more human again, but still more than a little fatigued, we were dropped into town and started to look for somewhere to stay. We were easy prey for a huge man in a short-sleeved beige “pant-suit” ((c) Nick Smith) who promised the facilities we wanted at a price that sounded right, we said we’d take look, he pulled out his phone and, literally, seconds later a minibus screeched to a halt beside us, driven by a man in navy blue pant-suit with some sort of tribal trim who turned out to be the hotel’s owner. Shortly thereafter we were ensconsed in a pleasant rooms in his nice hotel and enjoying the luxury of a bed for the first time in over 48 hours.

We hooked up again in the afternoon and went wandering the streets of Arusha to suss out the safai and Kilimanjaro situation. Eventually, we ended up back at our hotel and the owner’s travel company offered us the best deal in town on a 5 day safari followed by a 7 day Kili trek, taking the “more challenging” Machame route, cos, after all, we didn’t want to make it too easy for ourselves did we? Arrangements sorted, beer, sleep.

We spent a leisurely day in Arusha, a spot of internet, and then found ourselves at the local stadium where a children’s organisation was holding a football competition together with various kids’ groups singing and dancing. We quickly made friends with some kids and were soon being urged to cough up for ice creams and the like as we offered our vocal support for the local team and they were beaten by bigger boys.

As evening approached we decided to have a night on the town, a posh meal and spot of nightclubbing before going our seperate ways the next day. We put on some fancy clothes, well, the fanciest we had, and made for the Flame Tree for some fine continental cuisine. Alas, as Lee and Nick tucked into succulent looking dishes, something disagreed with me and I was violently sick in the toilets. Time for bed.

We bade Nick farewell, he was off to Moshi for a couple of days, and made our rendezvous in town with Thomas, our guide for two days on a “Cultural Tourism” jaunt to a nearby Masai village. Thomas was quite pleasant, although a little odd in demeanour, but surprised us as he revealed himself to be studying at Harvard, home on the holidays, and we were able to join him in banging on about how horrible Americans are. Ah, the one thing travel teaches you is just how similar people are wherever you go.

Thomas took us for a guided tour of his village, explaining to us that the Masai that lived there were mostly women and children who had given up the nomadic life for the benefits of proper schooling and a settled life, the men still herded their cattle and lived the traditional life the majority of the time. We visited an old craftsman in his hut and watched as he made “traditional Masai knives” out of cheap Chinese-made machetes purchased from the market. After a delicious lunch, we spent a couple of hours walking to the market and were soon engulfed amongst crowds of Masai bustling around the hundreds of stalls selling everything from frilly underwear to football shirts, suitcases to traditional knives, clubs and walking sticks. We walked onwards and reached a livestock market where tribesmen had congregated from miles around to trade in goats and cattle. As we walked back to the village, children chased after us shouting “Mzungu”, swahili for “white person”, we seemed to be quite a novelty.

Back at the village, we ate another fine meal and then took a stroll down to the bottom of the village where the local team was playing a rival village at football. It was easy to root for our villages team as the others were dressed in full Chelsea kits. The pitch wasn’t favouring our boys as it was quite steeply sloped and they were playing uphill. At one point the ball caught in the branches of a tall tree which was, apparently, on the pitch. Stones were thrown until the ball fell and play continued immediately, our boys won 3-1. On the way back we had to cross a stream with precarious stepping stones. Lee was nervous, but halfway across turned round to me to tell me it was fine, promptly falling flat on her face in the water. I waited until she confirmed the camera wasn’t broken and then laughed my arse off.

We spent the night sleeping in a traditional Masai boma, or mud hut. All the Masai were in a brick and concrete house next door, but they had a boma they used for cooking which they said we could use if we really wanted and set up a bed for us. When the cock crowed at sunrise it was right outside the door and I nearly had a heart attack. We slept ok but next morning everything smelt of smoke and we discovered a chicken in a crate at the foot of the bed.

We spent the morning hiking up a nearby hill which offered panoramic views of the surrounding country. An old widower lived alone at the top of the hill, we gave him some money because he had to “clear up after all the tourists”. I suggested to Thomas that he should stop letting tourists drop litter on the man’s hill. The old man let us take some photos and we said we’d get some prints done for him. He said we could come and live with him on his hill and he’s leave the land to us when he died as he didn’t have any family. I told him it was too far to the shop.

Walking back through a forest, I mentioned to Thomas that I liked the traditional Masai walking stick, or Omalileek, and wished I’d bought one at the previous day’s market. Soon we passed a man with a particularly good one and Thomas negotiated a price for me. I checked that the man wasn’t being ripped off as I didn’t want to take advantage, Thomas promised me the man was happy, then spent the rest of the walk back telling me what a good deal I’d got as literally every Masai we passed expressed stick envy at my impressive Omalileek.

Back at the boma, we hung out with a 93 year old lady who was bedecked in homemade traditional jewellery. Before long Lee was conducting intense negotiations as the lady attempted to sell everything she was wearing. Lee settled for a necklace and a couple of bracelets and gave the lady a buddhist bracelet from Laos to remember her by. Back in Arusha, we had a quiet evening of pizza and beer and appreciated our bed just a little bit more.

We had one final day to kill in Arusha and did some running around for final bits and pieces of kit for the safari, then I spent the afternoon blogging. Back at the hotel, writing some notes in my book, I snapped to Nick to stop jogging the table then looked up to see that all the tables were shaking, as were the balcony railings and everything else, it was an earthquake, very strange.

Finally, Lee and I piled into a car with Omi, who was to be our safari driver, and motored to Kilimanjario airport to pick up Sarah, a friend from my days at Kingston. All was proceeding well, the flight was on time, but alas Sarah’s bag failed to appear. We hung about as phone calls were made and forms filled in and then spent the hour of the return journey reassuring a tired and emotional Sarah that the bag would materialise and filling her in on the plans.

Back at the hotel Mr Pantsuit took charge and promised to get on the case first thing in the morning, apparently Precision Air (!) were always losing bags, it was practically standard procedure. We settled down for a beer and some food, introduced Nick to Sarah and confirmed the plan that we would leave on safari as planned and lend Sarah whatever she needed until the bag showed up.

Getting up to order a final beer before bedtime, Mr Pantsuit looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked if I’d had any luck arranging the safari. I replied in the affirmative and that I’d arranged it days earlier with him. He apologised and blamed his confusion on the fact that “white people all look the same”.

We stumbled out of bed before daylight, shivering from the effects of our shared flu, and staggered to where our taxi was supposedly waiting. The penny dropped twenty minutes later when we were still without a lift and Lee discovered her purse was missing, last seen in said taxi the previous evening. Much cursing ensued and we scrambled to arrange a replacement lift to our 7am bus. Fortunately, we were soon speeding down the hill to central Nairobi and were relieved to take our seats on board.

I had taken the liberty of booking us onto the Akamba Royal Class bus and we were soon comfortably ensconsed in lovely big comfy armchairs with extra legroom and served a cooked breakfast, just what the doctor ordered. We bundled ourselves up with plenty of tissues, got dosed up on paracetemol and settled in for the twelve hour journey, only leaving our seat for the chaotic border crossing into Uganda.

The reason for our journey was Lee’s sudden decision in India that we simply had to go to Rwanda to see the mountain gorillas – supposedly “the best thing you could possibly do in Africa”, or something. Many hours and vast resources had been expended in Mumbai trying to facilitate this, contending with the seemingly incompetent staff at the gorilla booking office, the rules forbidding the transfer of funds out of India and the hassle of trying to arrange a transfer from Barclays bank by fax when you are unable to give them the actual amount to be transferred – fascists.

Anyway, Lee had finally, we hoped, got it sorted, and we were now on our way to Kigali in Rwanda, via Kampala in Uganda, by way of consecutive punishing 12 hour-plus bus rides – hence my decision to pay a few quid more and go for a spot of luxury. Neither country had been on our original list of places to visit when we drew up our ludicrous itinerary, and neither was a country I’d ever given any thought about visiting, but as we were in the neighbourhood…

Our lovely, friendly, warm, comfortable, nice, lovely, warm and, above all, comfortable bus deposited us in the mayhem of Kampala shortly after dark with no local currency and nowhere booked to stay, oh, and feeling like death. We threw ourselves at the mercy of a taxi driver who immediately proved his worth by taking us to a nearby ATM – in a stroke proving the Lonely Planet are liars on the path to hell, they said there were none but there appeared to be one, with accompanying armed guard, on almost every street corner.

Next, we drove through the relentless evening traffic, which put even Nairobi’s nightmarish rush hour into perspective, and eventually reached the Backpackers, a wonderful haven of traveller tranquility on the hill overlooking the city, where Dave from Norf Lundin graciously gave us a bed for the night. Lee immediately collapsed beneath the sheets, while I sought sustenance, both solid and liquid, in the bar. Whilst there, I was also able to book myself on a trip to raft the source of the Nile, an opportunity not to be missed, even in my weakened condition. “Ah, a 7am start you say?” Harumph.

I returned to the room to discover that I had forgotten to order any food for Lee and, even worse, she had remembered she was hungry. Harsh words were uttered. I say uttered, I mean screamed. I returned to the bar to be told the kitchen had closed. All they had was cake, on display on little cakestands on the bar. “Give me a slice of each” I said, hedging my bets. “Ah, oh, on second thoughts, give me two slices of the one which doesn’t have ants crawling all over it, thanks.”

Once more into the darkness, dear friends, once more, I left Lee snoring and skulked out to imbibe as much coffee as possible while I waited for my lift. The bus arrived soon after and we then spent a riveting two and a half hours roaming the various other hotels in the city collecting other, erm, white water enthusiasts, including – oh thank the Lord! – a dozen twentysomething American girls who spent the entire journey showing off their uncanny impressions of Paris, Nicole, Britney and Lindsey in between texting and being generally obnoxious. Fortunately, I seemed to be only person not in a group and so was able to sneak under the radar, hunching into a corner of a back seat and being taken for an inanimate object.

A mere four hours after dragging my aching carcass out of my slumber pit, I was at Jinja, being briefed on our route down 25km of the Nile, just north of its source in Lake Victoria, and including five Class 5 rapids – the most dangerous it’s possible to raft.

We took to our boats and paddled into the river before being given a brief run through of the various commands and techniques necessary to make it to the end alive – these included “paddle really hard”, “hold on” and, for the really big water “Oh Shit!”. Then they turned the raft upside down so we could get used to falling out and we were off. Our boat had two Canadian guides – the voluptuous, smiley Marie-something or other and Frenchie, who had three toes missing from one foot after an ominous sounding “grain silo incident”. The rest of the crew was made up of a pair of ageing US military types, one of whom was already fluorescent pink with sunburn (yeah, good luck with that out rafting for a day at the equator mate), a pair of gay Germans and one of the American girls with a quite unfeasible facial hair problem who sat in the front next to me but didn’t appear to grasp that the raft was propelled by means of PADDLING with that PADDLE – THE ONE YOU’RE HOLDING!

Suffice to say, we hit the first three class fives, we were flipped out of the boat in a variety of spectacular and quite terrifying ways and I drank a lot of Nile. When we weren’t being dumped in the river by ferocious torrents of white water, we were paddling seemingly interminable distances beneath the mercilessly beating equatorial sun (yes PADDLING, with the PADDLE, LIKE THIS, OH FOR GOD’S SAKE WOMAN!) and watching with mild amusement as we all turned pink and the American turned a sort of glowing violet with dark red welts.

And then it was lunch, ham and cheese sarnies and squash on a tiny island (Can someone please shut those American girls up before I go on a pre-prandial killing spree, can’t you see I’ve got the sniffles).

I’m not sure what was different after lunch, perhaps it was just that we were all just a wee bit heavier, or maybe even we were finally getting the hang of this rafting thing, but we managed to stay in the boat as we tackled the afternoon’s mostly class 4’s. Finally, we reached the approach to a class 6, where we would disembark and carry the boats around, before getting back in for the final, and most difficult, class 5 of the day.

We were given the treat of going down last and watching how the other boats fared with this two part rapid. I took great delight in the expressions of exteme terror on the faces of  the American girls, and even more delight as their boat flipped at the first part of the rapid and they dragged themselves like drowned rats into the rescue boats. And then it was our turn.

We made it safely through the first big drop, paddling hard and crouching low, holding tight when the “Oh Shit!” command rang out, then it was back up and pounding full pelt with the oars to get the right position for the second hit. The “Oh Shit!” rang out again and we crouched and held, but to no avail as we were hit by a solid wall of water, turning the boat one hundred and eighty degress in the air and dumping us all into the drink.

But we’d done it, completed the course and the adrenaline buzz was amazing. We trudged up the bank to the bus where cold beers were dispersed and dry clothes pulled on. I swiftly coughed up a ludicrous amount for a DVD and photo CD of the day and then we were back on our way to Kampala, round the houses and then finally back at the hostel around 8pm.

I met Lee in the room and we repaired to the bar where I regaled her with stories of my derring do over an extremely poor pizza and some lovely refreshing beer before she filled me in on her day – she’d made it into town and booked us on the following morning’s bus to Kigali, the 6am standard class boneshaker, oh joy, time for bed, but first, what the hell, just one more beer.