With the final border crossed, we took shelter in a town called Springbok, in the rustic, chintzy charms of Annie’s Cottage, an oasis of Laura Ashley floral prints, knick knacks and frills, seeming incongruent to the dusty wilderness from which we’d come. The shower was powerful enough to blast away the dust that had clogged our pores, to massage the aches of the six thousand kilometres we’d driven. We threw the last of our meat on the brai, popped the lids on a couple of lukewarm beers and reclined on the flowery quilt to contemplate the run in, our final twelve days away. Then realised we had satellite TV and settled in for a crap movie instead.

The following day started with the breakfast of kings, a fine eggs Benedict and several cups of strong coffee, in the over ornate setting of Annie’s dining room, a haven for porcelain collectibles and the casual clashing of artistic styles. The Queen of Chintz herself was on hand to loom over us in inch thick makeup and spin cautionary tales of her own driving misadventures in the Namibian dirt. She seemed to think we’d been exceedingly fortunate not to have died or been horribly disfigured in our crash and leered encouragingly to emphasise the point. We took our leave, packed the car once more and hit the N7 south as fast as possible.

By mid-afternoon we’d reached Saldanha, a picturesque seaside town on the Atlantic coast a hundred kilometres or so north of Cape Town. We quickly found our lodgings at the friendly Saldanha Backpackers and settled down at the patio table to chat with the owners Leon, a cuddly, smiley shaven headed host, and Clive, a tousled haired space cadet. As is the way with these things, cold beverages and chilled out tunes, the gorgeous sunshine and superb views out over the sea combined to relax and re-energise and we were soon making plans to join our new cohorts on an evening expedition.

As the sun began to slide into the sea our numbers were augmented with the arrival of Tony and Melissa, old friends of our new ones, and we were soon piling into a ubiquitous Toyota Corolla and driving to a large live venue in the neighbouring town for an evening of top South African rock and roll entertainment.

Refreshments and comfortable seating procured, we were soon introduced to the hard rock stylings of Karen Void, a guitar toting Valkyrie in leather trousers. The crowd went wild and we sat, a little bemused, and concentrated on drinking. Shots arrived and were dispatched. We queried Tony’s refusal to remove his sunglasses in a darkened indoor environment, only for him to reveal that he was actually one of South Africa’s top pop songwriters and a bona fide rock musician in his own right, thereby gaining him immunity from the rules that apply to mortals in this respect.

Karen brought her racket to a close and was replaced on stage by the, apparently legendary, Springbok Nude Girls, veterans of the South African rock scene on a reunion jaunt, banging out the hits for the kids one last time. By this point things had deteriorated somewhat into the chaotic. Clive, shirt open to the waist, was thrashing and head banging like a man possessed, in between theatrically snogging Leon in open defiance of the resolutely heterosexual surroundings. Lee had suddenly become heavily inebriated and was administering excruciating shoulder massages to all comers in between shouting nonsense and knocking over beer bottles. Alas, the music left me unmoved, far too much pointless guitar widdling and a singer who was very much a fifth rate Michael Hutchence wannabe.

None too soon, the entertainment came to an end and we were forced to endure the compulsory drunken drive home. Back at the hostel I persuaded Lee to retire for her own safety and then joined the others on the terrace for a nightcap before admitting defeat myself and stumbling to repose.

I had seemingly forgotten that we had an early start as we needed to ensure we returned the hire car before eleven in the morning. Fortunately Lee was on the ball and, by the time I roused myself, had the car packed and had persuaded Leon to give it a good hosing down so it didn’t look quite as filthy. We swapped emotional hugs with our generous hosts and then quickly drove the final stretch, entering Cape Town on a picturesque road that followed the curve of the coast and provided magnificent views of the Mother City with the monumental mass of the mountain behind.

We drove somewhat sheepishly into the car rental garage and Lee went to sort out the paperwork and recount our intricately constructed cover story regarding the motoring mishap while I unloaded. A stern, matronly rental company lady listened and promised to let us know our liability for the damage before we flew. Moments later John and Jacqui, our surrogate African aunt and uncle, arrived and I was able to pile everything into the boot of the car they had so generously agreed to lend us. We retired to a cafe to update them on our adventures and made plans to see them in a few days at their house in Bonnievale.

Next, we motored out of town and into the upmarket suburb of Constantia to seek out a jeweller we’d been recommended. We spent a pleasant hour or so trying on rings and swapping stories with Paul, a jeweller who also ran a restaurant, lectured in psychology at the university and ran a charity to help underprivileged kids. An engagement ring – yes, another one – and two wedding bands were chosen, we agreed to pick them up on our last day and then headed back into the city centre again to check in to our hotel.

Once again, the peak holiday season had meant that lodgings had been difficult to find in advance and we had been unable to get a bed at any of the backpackers’ hostels. Sadly, this meant that we’d had to book a room in the Hollow on the Square, a delightful boutique hotel within easy walking distance from all the main amenities. Even more unfortunate, a further room shortage meant that they’d had to upgrade us to a suite.

We ensconced ourselves, bathed and snoozed and then wandered back out into the delightful afternoon sunshine for a stroll up Long Street to drop off laundry and then made our way down to the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, a large tourist magnet conclave of shops and restaurants overlooking a marina. We perused the boutiques, Lee forced me to buy expensive jeans on the basis that my arse looked amazing in them, and then we settled down for a spot of dinner at a harbour-side open air bistro. More exotic game meats were consumed with a fine bottle of easy drinking red and a moment was taken to appreciate finally being at rest, with no more hectic drives or impending destinations for the next few days.

Indeed, the following day we could barely leave the bed, such was the delight at not having to do anything in particular. I briefly took a ride into town in a glorious vintage Mercedes taxi, luxuriating in the green leather folds of the back seat, to no avail, the laundry wasn’t ready, the camera shop was closed, I returned, got back into bed and we ordered more room service.

Our laziness extended into Sunday and it was only in the afternoon that we were able to rouse ourselves to venture out. It was back down to the V&A Waterfront to take in the delights of the aquarium, though not delightful enough to warrant taking the opportunity to scuba dive in the shark tank when it was offered. Next on the agenda was a visit to the National Gallery, where we particularly enjoyed an exhibition by Marlene Dumas, but the sloth of weariness was soon wrapped around our necks once more and we eschewed the temptation of a cloud free Table Mountain to return to the hotel and take in a disappointing nil nil draw between Manchester City and Liverpool and then have another early night instead.

The following day was New Year’s Eve and a packed programme commenced with a coach tour of the Cape peninsula, an activity we’d signed up for as it was the only way to get a ticket for Robben Island before we were due to leave. A small coach collected us painfully early and then whisked us off down the coast and through the beautiful beach communities of Clifton and Camps Bay. Inevitably, the guide proceeded to launch into a lengthy lecture on, of all things, Tanzanite, the semi-precious stone unique to Tanzania, about to become more precious as the mines are running dry. The lecture encompassed the investment benefits of purchasing Tanzanite jewellery and then led seamlessly onto a retail opportunity to purchase the stone at preferential rates as we pulled into a Simon’s Town shopping complex. We groaned inwardly and used the stop to purchase lattes instead. After twenty minutes of hanging around, during which no one seemed remotely interested in Tanzanite investment, we were shooed back onto the bus and the journey continued down into the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve.

We had to admit the scenery was breathtaking. The road skirted beautiful, dramatic cliffs with craggy drops down into the Atlantic Ocean, all under the vista of a clear, cloudless sky and the ever present golden sun. The reserve itself was of interest as it is completely unique. A World Heritage Site, the Fynbos habitat is the richest place on the planet for plants, containing much flora and fauna not found anywhere else. At Cape Point we were finally able to get out, stretch our legs and leave the guide and the rest of the group behind. We set off along a footpath, following the coastline around to the Cape of Good Hope itself while being buffeted by the fresh sea winds. Finally, it was back to Simon’s Town and Boulders Beach, where we were able to sit and observe at close hand a colony of jackass penguins basking on the rocks.

The tour completed, we had earned our prize and left clutching our precious Robben Island tickets. We grabbed a bite to eat and then drove to the District Six museum for some more cultural learnings. District Six was another stark reminder of the oppression of apartheid and the museum gave us a vivid insight into the way in which a once vibrant, colourful, cosmopolitan and mixed community, almost a tenth of the city’s population, had been forcibly removed and re-housed in strict segregation and the whole area bulldozed just to stop people of different races living side by side. Ludicrously, most of the land is still lying empty some four decades later.

Somewhat sobered, it was time to continue delving into the country’s murky past as we set off back to the waterfront to catch the ferry to Robben Island. At the ferry terminal an exhibition chronicled further the oppression of the black majority and even the terrorist aggressions perpetrated by the white regime in other countries, both neighbouring and further afield. It seemed strange to learn, for example, that the United Kingdom had been so supportive of the South African government when a bombing campaign was carried out against the ANC by their agents in London.

We queued, doors were opened, the ferry arrived, the passengers disembarked, the ferry left to refuel, we continued to queue, the departure time came and went.

By the time we had boarded and the ferry reached the island, we were way behind schedule. We were herded onto yet more buses and given a brief guided tour of the leper graveyard, quarries and so forth, gaining insight once more into the level of degradation imposed on the prisoners and the depth of their strength to continue the struggle despite it. Finally, we reached the prison complex itself and joined a huge mass of people following a former inmate around, listening to tales of daily life from someone who had suffered it at length. There were obligatory pictures of Nelson Mandela’s cell and then, with the evening drawing in, it was time to board a different ferry back to the city. This one was a piece of history, one of the ships which had brought the freed inmates back upon their release in the 1990’s, all very well but it was less than half the speed of the modern vessel that had brought us.

Back to the hotel and we were reunited with old partners in crime, Kirk and Michelle were to join us to see in the new year on the town. We had a couple of preliminary beverages in the hotel bar and then retired to the room to polish off a couple of bottles of wine and put on our glad rags. Then it was off to Long Street where the party was already in full swing. We grabbed take away noodles and then settled upon a snug little bar with a DJ playing some funky tunes, managing to find a cushioned snug literally in the shop window where we could take in the sights outside whilst dancing to the music and partaking of beers and the inevitable shots. Midnight saw us thusly, shaking booties and throwing shapes at the hordes outside the windows in complete abandon.

We ventured outside to take in the scenes, the carnival procession of drumming bands, high spirits on the streets, casualties and carnage. As the hour grew later, we decided upon a tactical retreat, garnered essential supplies and withdrew to the hotel room to lounge on the bed, stick on TV background and talk rubbish till the early hours over endless glasses of wine.

Sleep followed, mercifully, followed by another majestic eggs Benedict and then the four of us piled into the little car and took a drive down to Camps Bay. We ended up in a slow crawling procession, winding its way through the suburb alongside the beach packed with people making the most of the holiday sunshine. Cars with boots open pounded the air with various sound systems, above, a rescue helicopter hovered, in the rear, Kirk snored loudly. We made our way up Signal Hill and joined the throng looking down from the amazing viewpoint over the Atlantic, Camps Bay and Clifton below, sparking one up as the sun turned the sea into golden shards as it crept closer to the horizon. We discussed the final few days of our journey, a road trip back eastwards into the Winelands and the Karoo, persuading Kirk and Michelle to join us, and then dropped them back to their hostel at Table View before slumping once more, gratefully, into bed.

We returned to Table View next morning, extricating our road companions from Saltycrax, a backpacker hostel, and hitting the road towards Bonnievale. We stopped only for a delicious lunch, and another easy drinking bottle of red, at a winery and took the opportunity to stock up with a few bottles to present to our hosts.

A couple of hours later, and with the minimum of navigational muppetry, we’d arrived and were being warmly welcomed by John and Jacqui. Corks were removed, glasses were filled and we settled in for a long evening. Jacqui managed to rustle up a delicious meal, with a little help from trained chef Kirk, and, before we knew it, it was early morning again and we were rolling off to bed in another advanced state of inebriation.

The day started badly as I awoke with the worst heartburn I’d ever experienced. I lay in agony until some instinct forced me to drag my carcass out of bed and limp down the corridor to the toilet. Not a moment too soon, as it turned out, as I then vomited copiously into the porcelain receptacle. A shower went some way to reviving me, as did a cup of strong coffee in lieu of a solid breakfast and then we set off in the direction of Oudtshoorn on the famously beautiful Route 62.

The road took us through rolling pastures, verdant valleys and between impressive peaks, vineyards dotting the hillsides, a pastoral paradise. Until, just before Ladysmith, we reached a sign informing us that the road was closed due to a huge rock fall caused by the recent bad weather. This pointed us onto a diversion that ended up taking us hundreds of kilometres out of the way, down to the sea and along the coastal highway to Mossel Bay before we were able to turn back inland. By the time we reached Oudtshoorn tempers had frayed and a general level of grumpiness, perhaps not unexpected bearing in mind the endeavours of the previous few days, had set in.

We checked in at the, rather too big for its boots, Backpackers Paradise and dispatched the girls to obtain supplies while Kirk and I pitched the tents. Erections completed, we retired to the TV lounge to stare vacantly and wait for them to cook our dinner. Surprisingly, they actually did then cook us dinner. So we ate it and then went to bed.

A thrilling day of Karoo adventures awaited. We broke camp reasonably early, ate a not particularly pleasant breakfast of scrambled ostrich egg and then clambered back in the car. First stop was a local ostrich farm where we took a tour of the facilities and got a close look at the enormous birds. It was all a little disappointing, perhaps due to being around animals in captivity after seeing them wandering free on safari, it just didn’t feel right. Our unease grew as handlers demonstrated that putting a bag over an ostrich’s head renders it immobile and completely docile as its brain is too small to process information when its eyes are covered. Next we stood and watched as various children were plonked on an ostrich’s back, the bag was removed and the bird trotted dutifully around an enclosure for everyone’s entertainment. Finally, a pair of jockeys mounted up and performed an ostrich race. It left a bad taste in the mouth. We cheered ourselves up in the extensively stocked gift shop and then made our exit.

Next stop was the Cango Wildlife Ranch, another destination that seemed to fall into the category of “seemed like a good idea at the time”. A short, fat woman led us through a series of wildlife exhibits, a procession of noble beasts that all seemed a lot less noble having been deprived of their freedom and cooped up in enclosures for the benefit of the paying public. The woman gave us a relentless overblown commentary, trying to convince us of the conservation role the ranch was playing, but it couldn’t dispel our negativity. Pick of the bunch, and the epitome of the wrongness, was a large shallow pool with a pair of huge crocodiles lying motionless and minding their own business. Billed as cage diving with crocs, tourists were encouraged to part with more money, don a mask and snorkel and climb into a cage suspended from a small crane. The cage was then lowered into the pool and manoeuvred into close proximity with the crocodiles. Naturally the crocodiles did their best to evade the cage but were followed at every turn by the intruders. It was all a bit sad.

The final part of the tour, and the reason we’d decided to visit, was to see the big cats. We followed a raised walkway over a series of pens containing lions, tigers, jaguars and cheetahs. Handlers came out to show tricks and they even wheeled out various cubs for some oohing and aahing. Once more, we were offered the opportunity to part with further cash in exchange for being allowed into the pens to pet the cubs, we declined and decided we’d seen enough. The day was sliding downhill a little, we were unused to such commercial attractions and large crowds of annoying tourists, it was time to grit our teeth and move on.

We drove out of town and, some time later, reached the Cango Caves, a massive network of deep underground caverns featuring impressive rock formations. It also featured an enormous car park full of coaches full of tourists. We parked up and went to the ticket office. Two tours were on offer, a run of the mill guided stroll and a more extreme adventure option. We surveyed the information, pondered the diagrams showing the narrow openings we’d have to navigate and decided, three to one, to go for the sedate non-adventure option. We approached the ticket office and were only able to secure places on a tour some two and a half hours later. Fortunately, this meant we could leave the area immediately and find somewhere off the beaten track for lunch away from the tourist hordes.

We settled on a picturesque hotel restaurant and took a table overlooking some pasture, populated with various eland, kudu, springbok and the like. Then we all ordered bits of the various eland and such to be cooked in a variety of sauces and brought to us accompanied with vegetables and beer. Then we blatantly, and shamelessly, ate the various antelope parts in full view of the aforementioned eland, kudu and springbok. It was absolutely delicious.

Satiated, we returned to the caves at the appointed hour to join with yet more crowds of irritating tourists in another underwhelming jolly. We did our best to be interested but the guide was a bore and, to be honest, one cave full of impressive rock formations pretty much looks like any another. The tour couldn’t end too soon, we strolled back to the car and made our getaway.

Fortunately, the day was to about to be completely redeemed as we took a turn off the main road and made our way up towards the Swartberg Pass. The surroundings gradually became more and more spectacular as we climbed into the mountains along a twisting narrow road. This road became more treacherous as the tarmac gave way to gravel and the sides gave way to massive sheer drops. The views out and down across the Karoo were breathtaking, simply stunning, and we were forced to stop the car regularly to drink it all in and take photographs of the mountains stretching off into the distance with the green patchwork plains in between. We reached the top, noting the sign reading “Die Top”, and then crawled our way back down again taking immense care with each tight bend dropping away into an abyss.

The remainder of the journey back to Bonnievale took us, once more, through picture postcard valleys of lushness, mountain ranges extending in each direction as far as the eye could see. We reached John and Jacqui’s house a little after dark, tucked into another superb dinner but, this time, laid off the wine before retiring, exhausted, for a sensibly early night.

A lie in ensued before we dressed in the smartest things we had and all piled into John’s people carrier for an outing to a local winery. We arrived and had a tasting, selecting some deliciously crisp, refreshing whites, and then went on to choose a selection of breads, cheeses and pates. Our selections were then gathered up into a picnic bundle and we boarded a boat for an hour long cruise up and down the adjacent river.

This was my idea of absolute heaven. The sun blazed down on the perfect surroundings, we tucked into the delicious fare and sipped generously on the delectable wines. Best of all, the company was first class and we yabbered away loudly as the craft made its stately way up the river and back down again. Back at the winery, we took a couple more glasses, made some further purchases for later and then jumped back into the car. A further winery stop was decreed and we set about tasting the produce from another local grower. More purchases, plus some sleight of hand with one of the sample bottles at the behest of a mischievous Jacqui, meant that we returned to the house fully loaded with enough wine to fuel a hefty session of bacchanalia.

It was a perfect sunny day, we changed into shorts and t-shirts, lit the brai, opened a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a bottle of rose and retired to the terrace to revel. Who knows what happened next. Presumably we ate, we definitely drank copious amounts of wine, there’s a vague recollection of some evil shots. Day turned into night, legs turned into jelly and bed became a sanctuary.

One that afforded shelter all too brief as I was awoken at 4.00am. Our departure time was 4.30, the destination Gansbai where Lee and I were booked to go cage diving with sharks. Once more, I stumbled to the toilet, threw up horribly and at great length. No time for a shower, I threw on some clothes and took my sea sickness tablet in readiness for the shark boat. Alas, I had carried it so long it had crumbled into dust. I threw it into my mouth anyway, washed it down with water and then dragged my bag through to the kitchen to say my goodbyes.

My humiliation was not yet complete though. The tablet dust made me gag, I made a desperate run for the sink and left a trail of vomit across the kitchen floor, over John’s foot, up the cupboards, along the worktop and into the sink. Then I just stood there, mortified as, thankfully, John and Jacqui saw the funny side and simply laughed at me. I apologised profusely, thanked them for their amazing hospitality and generosity and then let Lee lead me to the car where I collapsed in a heap on the back seat.

The gorgeous surroundings meant absolutely nothing as we motored towards Gansbai. I had my head covered with a jumper and managed to achieve a few brief bursts of sleep. Twice I had to demand the car be stopped so I could honk the final slops of acid bile out of my stomach at the roadside. Reaching the shark dive office I had no option but to simply refuse to leave the car for fear that a boat trip would literally finish me off. Lee, quite legitimately, was livid at my betrayal but I was unmoved and unmovable, a sorry shabby mess of an excuse for a human being and a shining example of the perils of drink. I was vaguely aware of Lee stomping off into the office and then passed out.

When I came round we were parked on the sea front and Kirk and Michelle were staring out at the ocean. We decided to take a drive into town to see what we could find, eventually ending up at a packed Wimpy where I was able to gorge on eggs, bacon and precious, precious latte. The appointed hour arrived and we drove back to the harbour to wait for the boat to return. The skies were grey and full of rain, I could only give thanks once more that I hadn’t got on board.

Eventually the boat steamed into view and the passengers disembarked. We caught up with Lee at the office and had coffee while they showed the DVD of the trip. It hadn’t been a success with only a couple of shark fins seen from the boat and none from the cage. Indeed, the sea had been so choppy the cage had been deemed unsafe and the dives curtailed. All in all my abstention seemed the wisest choice. On the TV monitor it was clear to see that the passengers had suffered horrifically with sea sickness. In my condition I’d have been throwing myself to the sharks just to make it stop.

We drove on up the coast, stopping briefly in Hermanus to share a quick cup of coffee with Joy, John’s sister, and her husband Jerry, both of whom had been on our Botswanan safari. Then we set our noses westwards and joined the dense traffic heading back to Cape Town. We dropped Kirk and Michelle back at Saltycrax and said our goodbyes, promising to meet up again back in England. Then we had to retrace our steps half way back to Hermanus to Sir Lowry’s Pass where we were to spend our last night before flying home.

Turning off the main road, we drove through a village and up into the hills and into a private estate, finally parking up outside a large wooden villa set into the side of the hill with superb views out over the plain to the Indian Ocean. Here we were met by Ian and his wife Marie-Helene, friends of Lee’s brother Jason who had moved over to manage the villa. We had a chat on the terrace to get to know each other and then retired to our luxurious suite, beautifully furnished with its own private terrace.

We had a quiet, restful night, taking a delicious dinner in the room and for some reason watching a film about the Rwandan genocide which reduced us both to tears. Most of all we just sat, all too aware it was the last night before we got on the plane home but at the same time incapable of believing our year was coming to end so quickly and so suddenly.

Our final day began with a top notch cooked breakfast and then we gathered ourselves together, thanked Ian and Marie-Helene for their immense generosity in letting us stay and then climbed back into the car to drive to Cape Town one last time. First stop was Constantia where we collected the wedding rings and said more thank you’s to the jeweller, Paul, who had also been very generous in his dealings with us. Then we headed back to Long Street and had a hectic final dash around the shops and market stalls to pick up some more essential wood carvings, beaded wire animals and bongo flava cds.

Glimpsing up above the skyline, the top of Table Mountain seemed to be beckoning us, peeping out intermittently from the table cloth of cloud that covers it so frequently. We decided it had to be done and drove swiftly up to the cable car station. Tickets purchased, we joined the throng in the revolving cable car and sped swiftly up the mountain side. At the summit, the cloud was thick, but every now and again it cleared long enough to present magnificent panoramas of the surrounding countryside. Robben Island and the Atlantic Ocean, Table View where our friends were staying, Clifton and Camps Bay beaches, all stretched out below us. It was difficult not to feel emotional as we gazed out to sea, north and westwards, towards our families and friends, with whom we would soon be reunited.

As the clouds drew in we decided to abandon the mountain and caught a cable car back down. Back in the city it was the usual sunshine and pleasant heat, we still had time to kill and so we took a stroll through the municipal gardens and had a quick spin round the Slave Lodge museum. Finally, we did a last re-pack, the last of the essential supplies were skinned and we drove off to the airport through the rush hour traffic.

Car parked, we trolleyed ourselves into the terminal and went to check in. In the queue in front of us a classic nice-but dim posh bloke with obviously surgeried trophy wife allowed his kids to run amok. At the counter our luggage came in massively overweight and I was directed to another desk to pay the excess and presented with a figure of £186. The man was very apologetic and dashed off to see what could be arranged, returning minutes later with the amazing news that there was now no excess to pay as our tickets were round the world. With boarding passes in hand we wandered back down the terminal and made our rendezvous with Jacqui and John. There was time for a final beer, a very final cigarette and some final goodbyes and then we made our way air side, got rid of our rands on Amarula, Jagermeister and Biltong and boarded.

The flight was the usual uneventfulness and free drink. I was able finally to see the Simpson’s movie and witness an argument between the posh bloke from the check in queue and the woman sitting in front of him. We landed, collected bags and then made our way through customs and a maze of corridors, hearts in mouths, minds in shock. I filmed Lee as we neared the doors so as to record her tears for posterity.

The doors opened and then we were back.

We pushed the little white Polo as fast as we dared across the dusty deserted Namibian plains, the radio fading in and out but always playing rubbish. The sky was beginning to bruise, the sun waning above the distant mountains to our west and sending stripes of orange and crimson glory shooting up like flames. We consulted the map, debated our options, calculated distances and times between the tiny settlements stretched sparsely along the highway. We argued, made up, filled up with petrol, fizzy pop and unhealthy pastry based snacks, but we kept on driving. The stars emerged with a moon in tow and still nowhere seemed inviting enough to overcome the urge to just carry on. Lights turned on, speed modified to a more cautious pace, we peeled our eyes for the oft repeated dangers of the African night.

Finally, nine pm, eleven hours and one thousand kilometres after we set off, we pulled into Keetmanshoop, the junction of three main highways leading north, south and east, a town composed mainly of petrol stations and truckers’ fleapit lodgings. A further half hour passed driving around searching for somewhere half decent to sleep that wasn’t already fully booked with holidaying South Africans and their enormous four wheel drives and camping trailers containing enough equipment to last several weeks in the most inhospitable of conditions. Room secured, we switched our quest to food and combed the desolate streets for a shop.

Faced with a stark lack of choice, I was dispatched into a mini-mart cum take away with an alarmingly poor selection, additionally hampered by Lee’s instructions – to just get her something to eat, she didn’t know what, just get food – a perilous mission at the best of times, but this late at night, after such a long drive, an almost concrete guarantee of getting it wrong. This, coupled with the complete lack of anything even vaguely appetising in stock, was a recipe for disaster. The best I could do was the classic African staple shortbread biscuits, delightfully named Eat Sum Mor, and a strange kind of sausage and chip bap that looked like it could be radioactive. They didn’t even sell beer.

I got various other bits and bobs and trundled back to the car. I proffered the gods optimistically and was met with the predictably negative response. Somehow I managed to remain in a zen like state of calm, ignored the urge to shout alot of very very rude words and got back into the driver’s seat. We pulled out of the car park and headed back towards the guesthouse. Moments later our luck changed as we passed a petrol station that appeared to be the only other place that was open in the entire town. Not only that, it was selling alcohol. I slammed on the breaks, Lee swore, I dashed out and back down the road and was soon the proud possessor of six bottles of Black Label.

Reinvigorated with the prospect of not having to go to bed sober, we made it back to the guesthouse and unpacked a few essentials from the car. The owner, a strangely unfriendly yet obsequious German in too brief denim shorts, met us at the gate and told us the room wasn’t ready – the man from next door in the shower. Somehow managing still to keep it together, we sat down in the garden to wait. I tackled one of the dayglo baps, managing to consume half in my doomed mission to show Lee that it really was edible before admitting defeat. Fortunately the beer was cold and unbelievable refreshing.

Presently the man appeared and looked at us quizzically, we explained we were waiting for our room, he apologised profusely for the intrusion and then warned us that the toilet wasn’t flushing properly. The landlady made her entrance clad in marigolds and clutching cleaning products. We informed her of the situation vis a vis the effluent disposal situation and she summoned Herr Hotpant to get the drain cover up and have a go at it with his rods. We had only to wait a further ten minutes, watching him ramming and rummaging, until we were finally allowed access to the room. Lee retired immediately to bed and left me to carry on drinking beer and reading in my usual lights off location astride the unreliable khazi.

Alas, the alarm went off at seven and we were straight back out onto the road. The wrong road, naturally, but, after an illegal U-turn and ten minutes, we were back on the B1 and heading for Windhoek, the capial. The sky was piercingly blue without a cloud in sight The sun, even at the early hour, was high and strong and the landscape, uniformly, was flat dusty plains with the odd shrub or bush, not a tree in sight. To our left, the west, distant mountains thrust craggy fingers up in protest at the heat. With the road virtually to ourselves and stretching off to the distant horizon in a perfect straight line, we put pedal to metal and made time.

There were brief stops for facsimiles of breakfast, undrinkable coffee and unhyigenic toilets, the escalating niggles of people who have been in a car too long, but, over all, a sense of the huge great nothingness we were passing through, the vast expanses of uninhabited, inhospitable country, the massive tracts of emptiness. Oh, and no radio reception. Around lunchtime we completed the five hundred kilometre drive and pulled in at the Carboard Box backpackers where we’d managed to secure a camping spot. The midday sun slowly cooked us as we unloaded our gear and made camp on the dusty baked-solid earth of the yard, endearing ourselves to the neighbours by repeatedly setting off the car alarm when opening the boot. Formalities concluded, irritability running high, we enquired of the staff where we might find a welcoming hostelry to enjoy a gut-busting Sunday lunch and watch the match – a reason for my tension, perhaps, Liverpool were entertaining Manchester United at Anfield. We were directed towards Joe’s Beer House, a taxi was summoned and we sped off for what I optimistically thought might be a pleasant afternoon.

Joe’s Beer House. Ah, the name conjurs all the right images, a house, beer, excellent roasted pieces of exotic meats, plasma screen televisions showing Liverpool pulling off a gutsy win against their biggest rivals.

We arrived at the rambling conglomeration of timber and detritus, an oasis of reclaimed wood and enough olde worlde bits of bric a brac to shame even the most Irish of theme pubs. We immediately made a series of school boy errors, dismissing the taxi and ordering a beer before ascertaining that they were showing the game. Extensive reconnoitring of the premises soon revealed a total absence of television screens, plasma or not, and a prolonged enquiry at the bar confirmed my worst fears, the game simply wasn’t on. My tension levels went through the roof, I started to descend into a state of ranting vulgarity, raging at the injustice, there were twenty minutes to kick off. Worse still, it was now mid-afternoon and we hadn’t had any lunch, Lee’s mood was definitely on the turn.

We summoned the taxi back to collect us and waited on the street corner for some sort of divine inspiration. At that moment a man walked past us, into the bar, wearing a Liverpool shirt. Without hesitation, I enquired as to the most likely venue to watch the game and was directed to a sports bar in a shopping centre a mile or so away. The taxi finally arrived and we gave the driver the directions. He seemed puzzled.

And with good reason. Ten minutes later, having scoured every inch of the building, I conceded defeat and asked to be taken back to the hostel.

The receptionist raised her eyebrows in surprise as we stomped inside. I was full of nervous tension coupled with extreme disappointment at being denied one of the biggest games of the season, Lee was in her normal state when deprived of food beyond standard mealtimes and dragged around a strange city in blistering heat trying to find somewhere to watch a football match – just bubbling under thermonuclear. I explained the situation and then stood in open mouthed disbelief as the woman told me we could watch the game in the bar, just next to the swimming pool, where they serve the meals, all day long.

Without any further hesitation we beelined for the bar, collared the barman and requested the game. He shrugged and pointed me in the direction of an incredibly fat man sitting on a stool at the far end of the counter among a group of friends. This, it transpired, was the owner and he was celebrating his birthday. I laid it on thick, particularly the aspect about being sent on a wild goose chase across town by his staff member and he finally relented, the television was switched on.

Just in time to see Manchester United score at the Kop end.

I spent the next hour sat in an increasing state of tense dejection, instinctively knowing we wouldn’t score yet unable to tear myself away from the misery. When the final whistle went I retired to the tent for a long lie down, only emerging for a quick recuperative dinner before drawing a line under the day’s events and catching an early night.

A suitably non-stressful start to the morning was achieved with a swift charge around Shoprite for supplies. Surprisingly, we managed to both spend far more than we expected and drive off in a state of only mild annoyance.

We left the dull sanitised streets of Windhoek behind and got back on the B1, heading north once more through the endless scrub covered plains. Making good time, we decided on a short detour to the hot springs at Gross Barmen but were disappointed to find merely an outdoor swimming pool and a 1960’s concrete leisure complex. Naturally we didn’t discover this until we’d paid our entrance fee and so half heartedly swam about for ten minutes before calling it a day and getting back on our way.

A further five hundred or so kilometres passed, this time with the constant rotation of a CD purchased by Lee to keep our spirits up, a compilation of Grammy Award nominees. As we rolled into Tsumeb, the repeated hearings of the Black Eyed Peas’ My Humps had driven me almost to the point of embarking on a homicidal killing spree but I restricted myself to merely criticising Lee’s driving. The wrong strategy as it turned out, two thousand kilometres in three days had left Lee with a hair trigger. My insistence on stopping for a latte was the final straw and we both said a few things we later regretted. I took over the driving and we proceeded in silence the final few k’s to the eastern gate of the Etosha National Park.

We checked in just in time before the gate closed, a massive relief, this deadline had heaped further tension upon us along with everything else. We were directed to the office at Namatoni and were soon approaching the whitewashed walls of this old German fort dating back to 1899, passing springbok, gemsbok and hyena along the way. A few minutes later we’d been directed to the campsite and were driving around searching for a suitable spot to pitch the tent. We were both exhausted and a little raw from the day’s squabbles and so I set about making camp as quickly as possible while Lee began preparing food for the brai. I soon had the charcoal lit and John and Jacqui’s fantastic portable brai in position over the glowing coals when Lee screamed an agonised howl and started running around in circles clawing at her shorts.

I stood and watched, desperately trying to stifle my mirth, as Lee managed to pull her shorts and knickers down and indicated she’d been stung by something. I inspected the patch of skin in question, the top of the left thigh, just below the primary buttock curve, and spotted a small black wasp sting. I pulled it out with finger and thumb and Lee calmed down a bit. We smothered the area in various creams and balms and then got on with the brai.

The tension seemed to have lifted a little so I poured some Sea Breeze sundowners and we settled down to a dinner of steak and baked potatoes while watching the blue of the sky turning pink, red and then purple. The camp was a hive of activity now, the, mainly South African, holidaymakers totally outdid us. All around us the trailers had been opened up to form extensively equipped field kitchens, bar areas and flaming brais that put our little number to shame. Yet there was something wonderfully simple about our little car and dome tent, our mess tins and folding camp chairs and I wouldn’t have swapped them for anything.

The evening concluded with a trip to the nearby floodlit water hole accompanied by a thermos of Sea Breeze and other essential supplies. We sat on the wooden viewing platform in complete silence along with half a dozen other night watchers. A springbok or two and some warthogs drank in the artificial light, oblivious to our presence. Some zebra wandered up and a couple of jackals skulked around the edge of the pool. Somehow, we contrived to have a whispered argument. I stumbled back to the tent alone and collapsed into much needed sleep.

As the sun rose, the camp sprang into life. In the tent I tried to block out the evidence that it was time to get up but had to admit defeat, throw on some clothes and get up. We brewed coffee for the thermos and joined the exodus out of the camp and into the 20,000 square kilometres of the park.

Etosha has a network of gravel roads leading between many water holes which attract the wildlife towards them, primarily in the earlier and later parts of the day when it’s cooler. We began our safari by driving a circuit of the drinking pools in closest proximity to the camp, seeing large numbers of zebra, springbok, black faced impala, kudu and giraffe. We stopped for coffee and put the tension of the previous few days behind us as the excitement of being back out on safari, especially one we were driving ourselves, took its grip on us once more.

It was an unspectacular morning’s drive in the sense that we didn’t see any Big Five, but by the time we returned to camp around eleven o’clock we still had an expansive list of sightings. We took a siesta, grateful for the little shade afforded by our camping spot, had a wander around the fort and an ice cream, laughed at some fat South African men in homoerotic camouflage gear and then got back into the car to investigate the water holes to the north. We drove all the way to furthest one first and were rewarded by the sight of hundreds of zebra dotted around the vicinity, together with gemsbok, or oryx, wildebeest and springbok. A group of young male zebra were engaged in a competition for dominance, chasing each other around the pool, biting and kicking out with back legs in order to show their strength.

We took a more minor road back towards the camp and were bouncing along the dusty road at about sixty kilometres an hour when we rounded a corner and saw a white rhinoceros laying in our path in a small patch of shade created by a roadside tree. I slammed on the brakes and we slid to a standstill in the gravel a few metres away. The rhino didn’t even open an eye. Lee began frantically snapping pictures and, just as frantically, snapping at me to maneuver into various better positions. The huge beast just lay there so that we were unsure if it was even alive until, finally, we had brought the car close enough to warrant a twitch of the ear and the raising of the head to see what all the fuss was about. Having ascertained we were no threat, the head went down again and we were back to being ignored.

Having said that, it was still a nervous moment as I squeezed the car through the narrow gap at the side of the road, within inches of the brute’s enormous horn, and got us back on our way.

It was only a few more minutes down the road that we came across a Land Cruiser full of tourists parked at the side of some bushes. I inched the car forward and back until we reached just the right vantage point to catch a glimpse of a mother lioness and four or five cubs feeding on a wildebeest carcass. We rounded off the day at the Klein Namatoni water hole, closest to camp, supping warm brackish beer and watching a family group of giraffes stooping elegantly to drink.

Back at camp we stoked up the brai once more and sipped more ice cold Sea Breezes, waiting the inordinately long time necessary to ensure our chops, spuds and corn was fully cooked, then inevitably discovering them to be overdone, at least on the outside. It didn’t matter a jot and we polished off the meal enthusiastically. At this point Lee screamed in terror as she noticed a fox skulking around, nosing our rubbish bag and looking like he might make an attempt on one of the plates. I took on the roll of protector and got up repeatedly to chase it away until it finally got the message and went off to try its luck elsewhere.

Dinner completed, once more we paid a visit to the camp’s floodlit waterhole and were rewarded with sightings of spotted hyena, porcupine, giraffe and even a lion padding his way silently in from the wilderness.

The following morning’s drive commenced with the majestic sight of a group of eland, the largest of the antelopes, about the size of racehorses. Further highlights included our first Etosha elephants and an amazing sighting of a lone black rhino striding through the brush alongside the road and then crossing only metres in front of us. We set ourselves a punishing schedule as this was our last drive in the eastern section of the park and only made it back to the camp around 12.30, more than six hours after we’d left.

We then had the task of breaking camp and packing the car before heading back out again, retracing much of the morning’s route and then carrying on further west until we reached the Halali rest camp where we were to stay for the next two nights. The tent went up with the minimum of fuss and we finally got a little rest. Around five o’clock it was time to head out again for another rewarding drive. This one culminated with more warm beer at a waterhole as we watched a male and female lion take turns to drink. The female was obviously in playful mood, repeatedly nuzzling up to the male, pawing his muzzle and then walking off a few paces to lie on the ground, roll over and lie legs suggestively akimbo. The male was having none of it and steadfastly refused to pay her any attention. The female’s attempts grew more and more insistent until finally the male decided he’d had enough and strolled imperiously off into the bush.

We caught sunset at the magnificent rock amphitheatre adjoining the camp and overlooking another waterhole and then had a braied Boerewors supper and then it was time for our first night drive. This was something we’d been wanting to do on each of our previous safaris as we’d heard amazing tales of the animal activity observed after dark but the option had never been available. We clambered into the tiered seating on the rear of the park Land Cruiser and set off in high anticipation.

The guide drove at a snail’s pace, lighting the area to each side of the road with sweeps of a hand help red spotlight, but we caught sight of a group of hyenas but little else. When we finally made it to the spot where we’d seen the lions earlier we managed a quick glimpse of the male before he walked off into the darkness. It seemed our luck wasn’t in and it was soon time to head back to camp with only the cold comfort of complimentary beer to keep our spirits up. Upon arrival one or two of our companions started kicking off at the guide about the lack of game sightings, unable to grasp the fact that it’s all down to luck. We sighed and made for the tent.

By now we were into a familiar routine of ludicrously early mornings, ready to leave camp by 6am, a thermos of coffee at a water hole, enjoying the peacefulness of the park as animals went about their business. A siesta would follow a late breakfast at the end of the drive before we would head back out for a couple of hours before sunset, the brai and bed. Our third day was no different but was enriched with the sight of a pride of five female and three male lions making their measured way from one section of bush to another, crossing the plain in front of us.

Back at camp we took a container of Sea Breeze back up to the viewing platform to watch the sun disappear and the wildlife emerge, taking it in turns to nip back and tend to dinner. Later, with postprandial beers, we sat in rapt silent attention and watched a huge bull elephant come to drink. He was followed by a white rhino, three hyenas and a pair of jackals. After a while the rhino plodded off to the bushes where he disappeared, only to reemerge a few minutes later followed by another. There appeared to be some mock challenging going on and a standoff developed before a truce was called and the pair returned to the pool to drink.

Our final day in the park dawned even earlier than usual, it was still dark as we broke camp and packed the car to leave. Our last game drive to the few water holes that we had not yet seen was fruitful and included the amazing sight of three male lions taking turns at devouring a carcass. In the area surrounding them was a huge mixed herd of zebra, springbok, gemsbok and wildebeest. Scattered amongst and around this group were over twenty side striped jackals hungrily eying the lions’ meat.

By mid-morning it was time to go and we pulled the car into Okaukuejo rest camp to pick up some cold drinks for the journey and freshen up before making for the southern park exit. There was time enough to visit one last water hole at the park’s very edge, where we caught a group of elephants drinking, before we presented ourselves at the barrier and handed over our paperwork, which was, inevitably, not in order. It appeared that in all our dealings with the various camp offices none of them had ever taken payment of our park fees. I grinned through gritted teeth, turned the car around and roared off in a cloud of dust, back towards Okaukuejo in flagrant breach of the speed limit.

We quickly sorted the payment out and screeched back to the gate, were greeted with a cheery smile and waved on our way. The reason for our haste was the need to reach the entrance to the Skeleton Coast Park before it closed for the evening at 5pm. We’d booked ourselves into expensive accommodation at the Terrace Bay settlement and were looking forward to a bit of luxury – a bath, who knows, even satellite TV – after a hard few days of camping. A couple of hours saw us reach Outjo where we stopped for more meaty pastry snacks and Lee took over behind the wheel.

About two kilometres later the tarmac ran out and we hit an undulating road of deep gravel. Lee motored on determinedly but my nerves simply couldn’t take it. My deep inhalations of breath and repetitive flinching were too much and she exploded in anger. I offered no excuse but simply begged to be allowed to drive. She concurred reluctantly and we swapped over. I took the extra precaution of letting a little more air out of the tyres for some better grip.

For two more hours I drove on, stranded between the rock of the gate deadline and the hard place of not wanting to die horribly, rolling the car into a ditch having taken a corner too quickly. Finally the gate was in view, we’d made it with minutes to spare. I was physically and emotionally shattered and could do little else but allow Lee to get back in the driver’s seat for the final stretch to our lodgings. Naturally, she roared off at speed and I was forced to spend another two hours in a constant state of self-induced terror. We passed through enormous sand dunes, Martian landscapes with jagged red mountains poking through, the dust worse than ever. Out of this desolation, we eventually reached the coast and turned northwards to follow its curve. We passed the tented settlement at Torra Bay, packed full of holidaying four by fourers up for the world class fishing, a forest of rods swaying with each gust of wind in front of the raging foam of the angry sea.

Some seven hours after we left Etosha we pulled into Terrace Bay, our hearts sank, it seemed to be nothing more than a few old wooden sheds and some pre-fab Butlins chalets circa 1947. I reported to the park office, collected the keys and we drove to our appointed hovel. As we unloaded our bags into the room our disappointment was palpable, I felt cheated, robbed, it just wasn’t fair, there wasn’t even a bath. There wasn’t even a double bed. I proclaimed it the worst value accommodation, pound for pound, we’d stayed in all year.

Having said that, the scenery was spectacular and so we strolled down to the water’s edge to take in a dramatic sunset, the coast spartan and deserted, free of all life, living up to its name. The Portugese sailors, who were the first to sail these waters, called this stretch the Sands of Hell as they knew that if they were wrecked and washed ashore there was little prospect of survival. There was simply nothing for as far as the eye could see.

Having seen it, we took turns to shower the accumulated dust of our marathon journey from us, downed a quick cold beer and trudged up the hill for dinner, ate a mediocre meal washed down with a bottle of red and called it a night.

After a breakfast containing strange mutant frankenfurter sausages and weird sweet scrambled eggs, it was time to take leave of the most remote holiday camp in the world type thing and head south. Thankfully, it was my turn to drive again and we made good time heading back down the gravel road, past the fishing mecca of Torra Bay and on beyond the junction for the road we’d come in on. As usual, the sun was like a blast furnace in the clear azure of the sky. All around us was a blanket of massive sand dunes stretching away into the distance where they drifted up the foothills of rocky outcrops and escarpments. We got the occasional glimpse of the sea, stopping once to park up and examine one of the many ship wrecks dotted along the coast, now little more than timber ribs and a pile of rusting metal components.

By mid-morning we’d reached the gate, which was cheerfully adorned with a pair of six foot high skull and crossbones. We signed ourselves out and carried on until we reached Cape Cross and decided to take a look at the seal reserve. An entrance fee was paid and then we drove the final stretch to a car park. The moment we exited the car a wave of smell washed over us, an appalling rank stench that had us gagging in moments. My first thought was the complete lack of warning given at the office – surely there should be some kind of notice advising visitors of the extreme nasal experience they were letting themselves in for.

The urge to hurl subsided and we advanced, noses covered with sleeves, towards the sea. As far as the eye could see there were the black bodies of seals perched on rocks on the shore. As we got closer their honking calls got louder until it reached ear splitting volume. We made our way to the wooden viewing platform and took in the whole panorama. The sea was solid with them for the first twenty metres or so, diving around in the surf for fish. The numbers basking on the rocks were incomprehensible, a black carpet of flesh, there must have been millions. And there must recently have been a birthing season as there were babies everywhere. Even worse, dotted about all over the place were the bodies of dead babies in various stages of dessication and decomposition. Seagulls pranced around tearing strips of flesh from the newer carcasses, the older ones having already been reduced to strange, dried out, furry pancakes, like roadkill.

It was actually quite depressing to be confronted with so much death. We took some pictures and video and legged it away from this hellish place, yet, for days, the stench was in our clothes, hair and nostrils, a constant aromatic reminder of grimness. We tried to forget the experience by stopping at a nearby restaurant for lunch but I mistakenly ordered a mixed seafood pasta bake. The taste of the shellfish combined with the remnants of the seal stench to such a degree I was forced to leave it barely touched or risk vomiting onto the plate.

By now we were flagging. The relentless days in the car – by now we’d covered the best part of three and a half thousand kilometres in eight days, nearly half of it on dirt roads – the remorseless being stuck in the car with each other, the interminable heat and dust, had all taken their toll. We rolled into Swakopmund, found our hostel and slumped in the bar in the hope that some cold beer would revive us.

It did. As did Liverpool hammering Portsmouth 4-1 on the TV.

And so we went out for dinner at an amazing traditional restaurant which opens as a museum during the day. We sat amongst antique furniture, old pictures, a man in a terrible toupee and a lot of chintz, surveying a menu containing a good number of the animals we’d been observing in Etosha. Lee plumped for the crocodile while I chose the gemsbok steak. The food was delicious, especially washed down with a full bodied red, and we strolled back through the deserted streets of this strange German desert town fully satiated and ready to sleep the uninterrupted slumber of the righteous.

And so, adequately refreshed, I took leave of my beloved next morning and was driven out to the edge of town where I joined up with a group of holidaymakers from Pretoria to go quad biking in the sand dunes. We were led in single file out amongst the enormous dusty hills and took it in turns to spend an hour roaring up steep inclines to the limit of our momentum, before turning our noses downwards and speeding back into the valleys. We took great arcing zig zags in this fashion, cutting up and down the almost sheer faces of the dunes at breakneck speed, the adrenaline coursing through our veins, whooping in delight. All too soon though, it was over and time to return to the hostel to meet Lee.

Because we were going skydiving.

A minibus picked us up and we drove out, with a few other nervous punters, to the airfield for a briefing. This lasted all of four or five minutes and then we were introduced to our tandem masters and cameramen and told to wait our turn. An hour or so later we were driven by them out into the desert, to a flat plain of compacted sand used as an ad hoc airstrip. All too soon, the six of us were crammed into the back of a tiny Cessna, there was a bumpy take off and then we spent twenty minutes ascending to ten thousand feet.

At the appointed altitude, having been strapped tightly to a tandem master each and joined in the requisite show of radical hand signals, the door was rolled open and Lee was inched first towards the door. The cameraman jumped and then Lee and her instructor rolled forwards into space and disappeared.

I felt strangely calm as I was maneuvered towards the abyss, smiling for the camera and managing to follow my pre-flight resolution – on no account to look down. The instructor counted down from three and then, ladies and gentlemen, we were floating in space.

For thirty seconds that seemed like a lifetime we seemed to be suspended in the air, the wind noise deafening. I’d fallen legs akimbo and in completely the wrong position. My teacher grappled me into the correct flight pose and I managed to focus on the cameraman who was zooming in towards us. His flight suit had wings, why didn’t I get any wings? The tandem master and I buffeted him with a shower of standard adrenaline sport gestures, hang ten and the like, and I shouted “I’m really scared”, which was odd because I actually wasn’t.

And then, like when you’ve been sticking your head out of a car window at speed and then pull it back inside, I was told to brace, the rip chord was pulled and, all of a sudden, the wind noise stopped and we were just gliding in silence. For the first time I could properly take in my surroundings, on one side desert as far as the eye could see, the mammoth mountainous dunes I’d ridden that morning now tiny pimples. On the other side the sea, the sun reflecting off it, glistening, stretching off in the purest blue to meet the curve of the horizon. Below, the town of Swakopmund, a toy town grid of tarmac and matchbox buildings.

The instructor decided to liven things up and began a series of stomach churningly sharp turns, swinging us horizontally in steep swoops towards the ground. Below, the airstrip and clubhouse got rapidly larger, I could make out figures waiting to assist in the landing, we came in at speed, my legs were drawn up tightly to my chest and then, at the last possible moment, a pull of the chords and we gently touched down like conjoined angels.

I was unstrapped, expressed my thanks for the safe landing and threw a final couple of thumbs ups towards the camera. Lee was still airborne, spared the white knuckle ride of steep turns I’d been treated to. She floated down elegantly, touching down perfectly and unstrapped the harness, all the time excitedly declaring that she’d loved it. We hugged ecstatically and then made a beeline to the club house in order to purchase our personalised DVD sets. Our jumps were replayed on big screens for all to laugh at our expressions as we left the aeroplane and plummeted through space, we said our thank you’s with a round of cold beers and then jumped in the minibus to be taken back to our hostel.

By this time it was two in the afternoon and we had another mammoth drive to our evening’s destination. The Grammy CD went on full blast – by now my rendition of My Humps had become word perfect – and we left Swakopmund behind, passing through Walvis Bay and then turning in from the coast and through huge clouds of sand driven across our path by the high winds. More and more arid, featureless desert passed by and then we reached an area of mountains, massive sandstone barriers which the road wound through in treacherous curves.

Having negotiated several passes, we reached the tiny town of Solitaire but had no time to sample its famous apple tart. We left the tarmac and drove on upon the gravel, into the dazzling setting sun, towards Sesriem. The altered light of the lowering sun threw amazing shades of colour onto the rocky outcrops bordering the track, alternating deep reds and fiery oranges with menacing black shadows. Finally, once more with only moments to spare, we pulled into the gate of the Sesriem camp site and breathed yet another sigh of relief – not only was the office still open, so was the shop and it was selling ice cold Black Label. The tent was quickly up, the brai lit, the bottles opened. We savoured the last of the sunset, enjoyed another tasty steak/baked potato/corn on the cob combo and collapsed into the tent to sleep.

Only to rise again at 4.30 and get ourselves back into the car, flash a pass and motor into the dramatically named Sand Dune Sea beneath an almost full moon. Forty five minutes later we reached Dune 45, the most accessible of the giant dunes in the area. We then set off at a brisk trudge up the side ridge of the dune, the sand dragging our feet below the surface and making each step an echo of that same laboured dawn traipse up Kilimanjaro I pushed on, leaving Lee to her own pace, and joined a small group of German tourists sitting at the summit and facing east.

Slowly, the clouds became illuminated, purples turned to red. The quality of the light on the surrounding dunes was mesmeric, each different plane emanating its own haunting shade of vermillion as the first rays started to break. Lee was at my side now and we stared rapt at the morningly magic, silent save for the chatter of the camera shutter click. It was a majestic sunrise, possibly the most beautiful I’d ever seen. Suddenly the landscape became illuminated, reached its daytime hue, we’d made the transition from night to day worlds and wondered why we ever stayed in bed when this was going on outside every single morning.

We returned to the car in quiet contemplation, no need for words until the familiar dusty interior of our craft broke the spell. An overland truck pulled up and disgorged its passengers, a motley crew of older travellers. One, Japanese naturally, made for the dune wearing a bizarre body scaffold, some sort of amateur steadicam brace, we laughed and I started the engine.

Next stop was the two wheel drive car park, we brewed coffee at a concrete table inundated with tiny inquisitive birds and then caught a 4×4 shuttle to Dead Vlei. Along the way we had an even closer view of the amazing dunes, the world’s highest and oldest, towering 200 metres above the valley floor, their pristine flanks sometimes fouled with the tell tale trail of footprints. The Dead Vlei pan was surrounded by enormous picturesque sand hills, but we felt we’d done enough climbing and opted to walk to the more famous Sossusvlei and back as the heat was already beginning to have an effect on us. Atmosphere sampled and photographs taken, we had a minor row and then flagged down another shuttle to take us back to the car.

Back at camp we fixed a quick cooked breakfast and broke camp ready for another massive drive. It was Christmas Eve and we had to get to Luderitz. The original plan had been to spend Christmas in Swakopmund as it’s a backpacker party town – big boozy, sociable Christmas lunch descending into an alcoholic stupor. Alas, everywhere was fully booked when we were planning and the only place Lee could find was a self-catering farmhouse described as being in Luderitz, Swakopmund. By the time we came to examine the map and realise there was approximately 1000 km of road between the two, much of it gravel of course, we’d already paid. We didn’t mind though, the prospect of a quiet sea side farmhouse all to ourselves appealed. We’d loaded up with food and generous helpings of drink and were looking forward to putting our feet up, hopefully in front of satellite TV. Lee took the first shift behind the wheel and off we sped.

My nervousness as a passenger over the preceeding days had become a real issue by this time and had caused a number of arguments. If it had been up to me, I would have done all the driving but the distances were simply too great. My involuntary flinching had to be kept under control so I buried my head in a book and studiously refused to tell Lee that I thought she was going a bit too fast.

An hour into the drive my instincts told me something was wrong, I looked up just in time to see a sharp left hand corner rapidly approaching. I wanted to shout a warning but it was just too late. All I could do was hold on tight as we entered the bend and the g-forces swung me over towards Lee. The car felt as if it was up on two wheels for a moment, righted itself and the back end began to swing round. Then the wheels dug in and gripped and we were flung back in the opposite direction in the car equivalent to the dreaded motorcycle high-side. We were now racing towards the right hand edge of the road. Lee swerved again, we slid and careered off the road to the left, mounted a pile of rocks and launched into the air, landing at a standstill on a fence post and only a foot or so in front of a tree.

We sat in disbelieving silence. After a while I got out to take a look at the situation. We were a good twenty metres from the road, wheels buried in several inches of dust, the front bumper lay behind the car where it had caught on the pile of rocks, the front underskirt was dented and some sort of large metal bracket had sheared off the underside of the engine compartment. I walked up the road, checking the mobile phone for the inevitable no signal, then returned, rummaged in the boot and erected the reflective hazard triangle. For once, Lee was speechless. Perhaps it was the shock. When she eventually did speak she sounded like she was going to dissolve into hysterics. I managed to restrict my reaction to a muttered “Stupid girl” and then sat down to wait, amazed only that we hadn’t rolled and were not seriously injured.

The Lonely Planet guide book devotes a special section to the gravel roads of Namibia, warning against high speeds and complacency. The high number of inexperienced people rolling hire cars is the reason for the prohibitively high rental prices in the country, and the reason why we’d hired our car in South Africa – though, even there, we had to agree that any damage incurred off tarmac would not be covered by the insurance. It was not an ideal state of affairs but it could certainly have been a lot worse.

A mere forty five minutes later a minibus pulled up. It was carrying a dozen staff members back from one of the guest resorts to their families to celebrate Christmas. The driver immediately pulled over and came to inspect the car. He pronounced us amazingly lucky, there seemed to be no mechanical damage, no leaks, the engine fired into life at the turn of the key. He barked some orders and the crowd that had gathered around to watch sprang into action. Four ladies rolled up their sleeves and started digging around the wheels. Just at that moment a 4×4 came up the road, slowed and the white couple inside stared at us. Then they simply sped up and left us, despite our frantic waving for help. I’d thought they could tow us back onto the road but it seemed that they’d seen the crowd of black faces and hadn’t fancied it.

Instead everyone took up a position around the vehicle and, on the count of three, we simply picked the car up and, little by little, carried it back to the road. We couldn’t believe our luck, gushed huge thanks to everyone, gathered the various bits of car up from the ground, threw them into the back, wished them all a merry Christmas and continued gingerly on our way with the minibus shadowing.

I drove.

We proceeded at a sedate pace, inwardly replaying the events, hardly talking – Lee seemed most concerned about the fact that she had actually now given me solid reason to be nervous with her driving, the prospect of me dragging up the crash whenever I felt like it was quite traumatic for her to consider. After twenty or thirty kilometres, with the car evidently safe to drive, our helpers overtook and waved us goodbye. I gradually nudged the speed up until we were going at a reasonable, but safe, rate and then, just to make things a little more interesting, it started to rain. The gravel was deep and rutted and all I could do was try to stick in the furrows already ploughed and peer through the downpour as it got heavier and harder. In the distance, forks of lightning bombarded the horizon like angry wizards.

A couple of hours later there was no alternative, I had to let Lee drive again, I was simply exhausted. I gave her solemn instructions on speed and technique, which even then she refused to listen to, got into the passenger seat and immediately went to sleep – it was just less stressful that way. We reached tarmac again after another hour and stopped in a village to pick up a few final supplies for Christmas – red wine, beer and vodka. The car, by this time, was absolutely covered in mud and looked in a terrible state, as did I. All around people stared, I could almost hear the words “You’re not from around here are you boy?”.

The tarmac was a blessed relief. The sun came out and the rain stopped and it was almost possible to believe that the accident had been a bad dream. While Lee drove on, I studied the insurance paperwork and began concocting a cover story that wouldn’t leave us liable for the damage. We stopped for petrol in the tiny town of Aus, the garage’s owner wandered over and declared he’d heard about us from other people passing through earlier that day. We pressed for details and ascertained that it wasn’t us that people had been talking about, but another poor couple, in an identical car, who’d come a cropper in the rain. I silently sent out heartfelt feelings of sympathy, at the same time glad that we weren’t the only ones to suffer such embarrassment.

As we rolled towards Luderitz our excitement grew. We were so flagrantly fatigued by now that our Christmas farm house, and the chance to spend two nights and one whole uninterrupted day not driving, had taken on mythical proportions and we played games with each other, fantasising about how fantastic it would be. We reached the outskirts, passing the deserted ghost town of Kolmanskop, a reminder of the area’s glorious diamond mining past. Just before Luderitz we took a turn off to the left and carefully followed a gravel road the final few kilometres to our destination, Diaz point, named after one of the earliest Portuguese explorers, the first to navigate successfully around the southernmost tip of Africa.

We passed through another grey desolate landscape, lunar in its bleakness other than the signs of heavy industry dotting the terrain. We were passing through Diamond Area 1 and large signs warned us that it was prohibited to exit the car of deviate from the road at the risk of being shot. Slightly unsettling.

Finally, we rounded a bend, a lighthouse came into view and we were at Diaz Point. It was awful. Ugly. Dreary. Grim. Driving around, all there seemed to be was a couple of large dilapidated houses, a small cafe and the ubiquitous rods of the camping sea fishermen we’d seen everywhere. Lee went into the cafe to make some enquiries and the owner, Gunter, as camp as the row of tents outside, wandered out with a key to show us our lodgings.

The house was in a terrible state. The kitchen equipped with nothing more than a pair of gas burners connected to a large orange bottle, the bedrooms dowdy, twin bedded, no lounge at all and one of those avocado bathroom suites it’s difficult to believe looked good even in the 1970’s, but which, no doubt, will become highly ironically fashionable again any day now. Satellite television? I think not.

We managed to express our disappointment to Gunther in fairly understated and reasonable terms. Sympathetically, and with eyes that revealed he absolutely concurred with our judgement, he agreed to phone the owners and see if there was any room at the hotel they owned in town. After tortuous minutes spent roaming the vicinity for signal, he got through and, finally, our luck was in. There was one room left, a double with ensuite, huzzah.

We motored back through the prohibited area as fast as we dared and were soon checked in. The owner asked what the problem was with the farm house – quite what was farmed there, or exactly where, was a mystery, there’d been absolutely no evidence of any plant or animal life – and we replied that it was a little too basic, we’d wanted to treat ourselves to a little more luxury over Christmas and it hadn’t matched our expectations. Her reply was simply that it had been advertised on a backpackers’ website and so what did we expect. I took an instant dislike to her.

The room was basic but comfortable and, even better, equipped with four channels of satellite TV. We surreptitiously carried in our supplies, the huge laundry bag of booze clinking tale-tellingly as I laboured with it through reception. Once ensconced, a cold buffet arranged on the sideboard, impressive bar in the corner, there was only one thing for it, a long, luxurious hot bath with a, warmish, beer. Then we curled up on the bed, switched on some tacky American Christmas film and called it a night.

And that’s pretty much how we spent the next twenty four hours. Christmas Day arrived, we made phone calls, opened a couple of presents, pulled crackers and wore paper hats, drank continuously and sat in front of the TV watching a marathon medley of cheesy American Christmas films, which were, somehow, exactly what we needed. We left the room only for an evening meal. No turkey or suchlike on offer, we opted for seafood and it was delicious. Afterwards, overcome with tiredness, we stumbled back to the room and passed out.

Our final day in Namibia dawned. The hotel owner managed to contact the owners of a local garage and persuade them to take a look at the car. They gave it a mechanical thumbs up and agreed to provide an estimate of the damage if required. Once more we were told how lucky we’d been, the locals seemed to regard anyone driving the gravel roads in a two wheel drive as just asking for trouble.

We took our leave of Luderitz and drove back eastwards, before turning south off the tarmac and ending up at Fish River Canyon, one of the deepest in the world at 550 metres. We reached the viewing platform, got out, had a look, took some pictures and got back in the car. It was beautiful and impressive indeed, but, already, the driving had taken its toll and there were many more kilometres to navigate that day.

There was one final stretch of gravel to conquer and then we hit tarmac once more at Grunau, filled up with petrol, bad coffee and sausage rolls and then floored it to reach the border as quickly as possible. There was one final hurdle to overcome, the inevitable good natured banter of the border guards as our filthy, damaged car rolled over the frontier and then we were back in South Africa with the land of dust, gravel and enormous distances, thankfully, behind us.

Morning broke early at Nan’s house in Port Elizabeth, we tiptoed downstairs to make a brew and try and find a TV to watch the Ricky Hatton fight. Denied by the lack of satellite, we were compensated by Nan’s wild tales of her youth. The highlight, her tale of marriage to a famous English cricketer in the 1970’s who turned out to be a bigamist, forcing her to have him immediately deported, helped distract from the fact she was still in her nightie and it was just a little too clingy.

We piled back on the Spaz Bus and left behind Durban’s humdrumdidum, joining the motorway heading west towards the Wild Coast, the Transkei. Our driver, Joe, filled the early morning silence with witty banter, racially stereotyping, amongst others, the local Indian population as money-obsessed uber-capitalists and members of the Zulu tribe as incapable of settling anything without resorting to violence. Noting our mouths gaping incredulously, he excused himself with recourse to the Bernard Manning defence – that if you’re offensive about everyone equally it’s somehow OK – and we went back to staring blankly out of the window. A rest stop came and went at another bland service station/Wimpy combination and then, around lunchtime, we arrived at our destination, Port St Johns, a supposed hippy infested backwater where time becomes mysteriously warped and people find it hard to leave.At the drop off we were met by Paul, an English guy with suspiciously long hair. Bags were thrown into a pickup and we, together with an American girl by the name of Josha, were soon disembarking at Amapondo, just a short walk from the postcard idyll of Second Beach, a quiet oasis surrounded by huge rolling green hills and a gorgeous view of the Indian Ocean. We made our way beneath a huge tree colonised by dozens of golden weaver birds, checked in and were soon pitching our tent on a high terrace carved into the hill with the best views out over the bay to where the surfers were battling the ferocious waves.

Front seat tucked up in greater comfort than ever before in a combi/matola/chapa/matatu, we climbed swiftly up and over the pass through the spectacular mountains separating Swaziland and Mpumulanga province. On either side of us majestic panoramas unfolded into the distance, rolling like a rumpled green velvet carpet that someone’s spilt sporadic broccoli over, perhaps.South African border control was predictably efficient after what we‘d become used to, courteous and speedy, which meant we were left standing about for a while as our transportation found the greater customs vigilance more time consuming – swings and roundabouts indeed. Re-embarkation occurred and it was full steam ahead once more for about seven minutes when we encountered our first road block, manned, by the looks of it, by a couple of bored soldiers who fancied something random to do.

A light drizzle tumbled out of the grey morning sky as we crested the hill and caught sight of the border post, at least a couple of kilometres walk away – non-ideal.  We continued our heavy laden trudge for a minute or two and then turned to look back up the road as we heard the sound of screeching tyres heralding the arrival of Alex, our shaven headed Italian chauffeur, in his bright red 4×4. The lift was back on.

Alex, however, was clearly in a filthy mood, after car trouble and delays, and barely grunted a hello before ushering us into the car, gunning the engine and roaring off down the hill. Moments later we reached the border post, said fond farewells to Malawi and marched across to Mozambique. Thankfully, there were no visa delays to further aggravate our feisty friend and, after paying only a moderate bribe to the guys operating the barrier, we were on our way again at quite terrifying pace.

As the kilometres and hours passed, Alex gradually relaxed, becoming more jovial and engaging us with startlingly sexist banter and his appreciations of a certain Mozambican lady of illicit talents who wasn’t his wife or the mother of his children.

After I’d refilled the tank using jerry cans of diesel “supplied” by Alex’s work, managing to spill a goodly amount on my jeans, we had a rapid lunch just outside Tete, soon to be the site of the largest open cast coal mine the world has ever seen, and then continued on our way at breakneck speed.

There was another brief jerry can refueling/jeans soaking stop where we bought bottles of Peroni to keep us going and then, a mere nine and a bit hours and 950 km from the border, we finally rolled into Beira.

First stop was Alex’s wife’s pizzeria, charmingly named Gigabyte, where, despite barely eating all day, we struggled to make an impression on a large chorizo number and a bottle of red – the diesel fumes emanating from my trousers seemed to be getting stronger – before combing the city for a bed for the night. We found a room at the fourth attempt at the Hotel Infante, a proper fleapit with a lethal looking electric shower over the bath – exposed wires wrapped in a plastic bag?

Saturday began with a  2 am rush to the toilet to throw up – diesel fumes or dodgy pizza, who can say? – and continued with nothing more strenuous than the World Service and bed. Lee ventured out to investigate Beira, returning with the news that there was little to see but streets full of photogenic falling down buildings and smiling kids – perfect for a bit of black and white artiness.

We took a Sunday morning stroll through the sunshiney streets to discover that everything but everything was shut. There was nothing for it but to head back to the pizzeria and begin drinking. We befriended a local by the name of Placido, a confirmed anglophile who praised the British in their colonial dealings and told us about his work as a shipping agent transporting huge granite blocks to Saudi Arabia to be used in road building.

I explained that I was in dire need of a television showing English football as Liverpool were taking on Arsenal that evening. Placido pointed us in the direction of Club Nautico and, ten minutes later, a cab deposited us outside a crumbling art deco sea front complex where Beira’s great and good were passing their Sunday afternoon splashing around in the pool, eating seafood and drinking cocktails on the beachfront terrace. We ordered a couple of beers and took stools at the bar then quickly ascertained that no, there was definitely nowhere in Beira showing something as inconsequential as a clash between two of the big four. Lee ordered some food then changed her mind and we legged it before it arrived and headed back to the hotel and the World Service.

With the weekend wasted thusly, Monday morning brought renewed purpose and we strode out determined to get sorted and get the hell out. First stop was an internet cafe to make some investigations, we sat literally surrounded by identically dressed Mormon missionaries in starched immaculate white shirts and black ties with prominent name badges proclaiming their denomination and all sporting the slightly spastic look that hinted their family background might just have been a little too close. Within a couple of hours we had booked flights and a safari for the impending visit of my Mum and made our arrangements for the intervening days before her arrival. Back at Hotel Infante we bumped into an Australian Lonely Planet writer who agreed that Beira really was appalling, grabbed a light lunch and then negotiated an exorbitant taxi fare to take us an hour or so up the coast to Rio Savane, a small beach resort and pretty much the only place worth killing the two days we had left before we could get the away.

The taxi dropped us at a deserted river bank and, for a moment, we thought we’d been shafted again. Then we were directed down to an overloaded dhow to join some other puzzled looking tourists and, eventually, ferried across the river to our destination. Our accommodation was a grass thatched hut with views of sand dunes, we dumped our bags, grabbed a cold beer and made small talk with the people from the boat, who turned out to be Zimbabweans. After half an hour or so of crazy anecdotes about life under Mad Bob, the day caught up with us and we turned in ridiculously early and sober.

The following day was taken up with an arduous schedule of sleeping and sunbathing before a romantic twilight stroll along the sand – including a welcome return to our favourite beach occupation of crab chasing – and then dinner and a movie, alas, the remake of Alfie, very very poor.

There was a ludicrously early start the following morning, our taxi was due to meet us at 6.15 and so we had expressly arranged for the dhow to be ready to ferry us back at 6.00 sharp. Naturally, I was forced to wake up the manager to chase up the boatman and we eventually made it to the other side at 6.45. Our car took us to the airport and we were soon checked in, paid an extortionate airport tax and then made our way through the laughable security – an X-Ray machine with no one watching the screen – my bag contained a Leatherman multitool with two three inch blades – and a metal detector arch that beeped with a man stood next to it to wave you through anyway. We then waited for an hour in the deserted departure lounge for our, oh what a surprise, delayed flight to Nampula with Air Corridor – in flight meal a strange stale bread roll with some sort of fluorescent pink “meat” of indeterminable origin.

At Nampula we fought our way through the crowds and then began intense negotiations with taxi drivers to take us to Ilha de Mocambique, slightly hampered by the fact that we thought Ilha was about 100km closer than it actually was, sorry, my fault. Unable, unsurprisingly, to come up with an acceptable price, one taxi driver suggested taking us to catch a bus, a journey costing a mere 100 meticals. We agreed this was the best solution and, five minutes later, pulled into the bus station and identified the correct bus to take us to the island. The taxi driver pulled the old “100 meticals each” routine and we threatened to call the police until he agreed to open the boot and let us have our bags. Then it was onto the bus, stuck with the bum deal back seat and half an hour waiting for enough people to get on for it to be moderately uncomfortable and seriously overloaded. This time was passed in a state of wonder as hawkers prowled between the buses holding up trays of cheap chinese goods, knock-off perfume, DVD’s, underwear and sunglasses for sale – the wonder being that so many people bought so much of the tat, indeed, shopping for crap out of the bus window appeared to be a national pastime.

Eventually we were off and realised, after about two hours, that we’d been mistaken about the distance. After four hours, all of the passengers and luggage of our small coach were decanted into a mini van to cross the narrow bridge to the island. Don’t ask me how they did it, but they did, possibly utilising fourth dimension physics or a parallel reality or somesuch. Anyway, a mere twelve hours or so since we’d dragged ourselves out of bed, we were finally on Isla de Mocambique, at one time the administrative capital of the country under the Portugese, resembling Zanzibar’s Stone Town but more run down and partially in ruins. We gave the van driver the name of our hotel and asked nicely if we could be dropped off there. He replied in the affirmative and then, moments later, stopped the van and beckoned for us to disembark. I checked the map and cursed, the hotel was about half a kilometre further on.

We cursed again when we arrived as the hotel resembled a travel lodge, standing out conspicuously as the only “new” building we’d seen – completely devoid of charm and character. However, it was very hot, the bags were very heavy and the nearest alternative was back the way we’d come from. We checked in, switched the air con to max and collapsed in front of the TV – American Chopper, nice. All too soon, Lee was getting restless, insisting we venture out to explore and find somewhere for dinner. I dragged myself reluctantly away from Mythbusters – surely Wilf Lunn should sue – and we took to the streets in search of sustenance.

The streets appeared to be deserted and looked like the civil war had only recently ceased, in fact they mostly resembled some sort of deserted wild west town which had suffered a heavy artillery bombardment. Nevertheless, the town was full of charm and the occasional example of fine colonial architecture had survived in one piece. We did a circuit of the main area and then found our way to, supposedly, the best restaurant, O Escondidinho. This was much more like it, a wonderful old stone building with big, cool, airy rooms, plenty of ethnic sculpture and artwork, lovely furnishings and a gorgeous pool area. Lee made the necessary enquiries and it was soon arranged that we’d move in the following morning. The food was delicious and we wandered home in high spirits.

Breakfast was taken in bed and then we trooped our way back through the narrow streets with our bags to take up residence at our new lodgings. We were given a delightful high ceilinged room with a huge four poster bed and then immediately decamped to the pool where we spent the rest of the day soaking up the ridiculously hot sun. When the sun set we made our way out to Reliquias, a bar restaurant serving beautiful fresh fish caught that day, before turning in for another early night.

By now the island’s slow pace had begun to take its effect, the following day I didn’t even make it out of the room, or even bed, reclining with my book and the fan on full blast. Lee went off on a photographic wander, spending hours capturing the feel of the place with hundreds of pictures. I was finally coaxed out of bed to eat at O Palador, another fish restaurant just down the road, and here we bumped into Mick and Liz, the couple running the Mushroom Farm lodge near Livingstonia we’d stayed at in Malawi. They were on holiday and we swapped impressions of the place – they’d been most effected by the sight of the locals defecating on the beach – and made vague plans to hook up for a drink. After a reasonable meal – Lee’s lobster was disappointing apparently – we retired to Cafe Ancora for caipirinhas but couldn’t escape the fact that everywhere was deserted, there didn’t seem to be any life to the place at all. This was probably because none of the locals ever ventured out before midnight and we were always ready for bed by nine o’clock. Hence we retired.

Saturday was spent enjoying a one another lie in before ensconcing ourselves around the pool once more, I immersed myself in the World Service, taking intermittent plunges in the pool to cool off from the baking heat. We made plans to get food from the local take away across the road and have a bottle of wine in the room. I nipped over to place the order and got talking to a couple of Cuban underwater archaeologists. They explained how they’d been living there for nine months out of each of the last six years, excavating about three Portuguese shipwrecks a year, were clearly going slightly stir crazy and were desperate to talk to someone new. I changed our order to eat in and nipped back over the road to get Lee. We then embarked upon a moderately heavy drinking session, accompanied by a huge plate of delicious fish, and then decamped back to Reliquias to continue the evening’s entertainment.

As the night wore on and the beer flowed, the place gradually filled up with locals and the music got louder, Lee’s nagging for me to dance got more vociferous, our two new friends – whose names I’ve obviously forgotten – joined in and, eventually, I was forced to take to the dance floor. More drink was taken, the floor started to fill, the DJ kept playing that So Unbelievable song we’ve heard absolutely everywhere – can someone please tell me who it’s by? – and, before we knew it, we were celebrating the beginning of Lee’s birthday. Lee became involved in an hilarious dance off with a group of local homegirls, taking turns to pull off even more ludicrous drunken dance maneuvers, culminating with Lee simply lying on the floor and convulsing as if she was having a fit – not altogether implausible as the strobe light had been going continuously for about three hours, indeed, it was this that finally ended the evening’s revelries as I pleaded to be allowed to go home with an excruciating headache.

Lee’s birthday proper began with a delicious breakfast in bed and then some pool time to try and recover from the previous evening’s exertions. Our recovery was hampered by the arrival of Mick and Liz and the advent of some birthday drinks. I was forced into a last minute cancellation of our island boat trip – on the grounds that the sea was too rough and so were we. Mick and Liz turned out to be excellent company, Mick’s dourness at the Mushroom Farm turning out to be just an exceptionally dry sense of humour it took a while to get the hang of, and Liz just a lovely Irish lady – and you know what it’s like when you get two lovely Irish ladies together with alcohol. Beer turned into gin and tonic and then a return visit to the take away for another huge fish dinner and Portuguese red wine served from a carton, then Cafe Ancora again for more caipirinhas before staggering home and collapsing.

Sadly, the following morning it was time to make our way back to the real world. The day was started perfectly by the no show of the promised chapa mini bus. The receptionist’s solution to this was to stare at his mobile phone and mutter incomprehensibly about lack of signal. Lee sat in the restaurant making small talk with Mick and Liz while I quietly, and then not so quietly, expressed my frustration in the arrangements made on our behalf. It seemed inevitable we would miss our flight until a small German man drove us down to the end of the bridge and told us there’d be a lift along any minute. And indeed there was, in the form of an open backed pickup, packed, not only with people, but also with baskets of dead fish.

As we raced uncomfortably towards Nampula, the aroma grew more and more overpowering and I realised there was fish blood sloshing around the floor of the pickup and, excellently, all over our bags. After about twenty minutes we stopped by the roadside, unloaded everything, filled the back with timber planks, piled everyone – seventeen people – and their luggage precariously on top and continued on our way. Finally, we were deposited at the junction with the main road to Nampula, transferred to an equally laden chapa and, eventually, deposited at a roundabout a few minutes walk from the airport.

Miraculously, we were an hour early for check in and the airport facilities were all closed. I made my way back to the nearest shops and bought what few supplies they had. The first signs of life were some guys operating a security baggage check. We had our bags searched – did I mention we also had two heavy cardboard boxes containing large sculptures for Lee’s birthday, all nicely wrapped and tied? – undid all the parcels, did everything back up again, apologised for the smell of fish and then had security tape fastened around everything ready for check-in.

About ten minutes later some bloke came over and started trying to get us to pay for the security tape. Lee exploded in fury, told the guy in words of one syllable exactly where he could stick his security tape and then watched bemused as he cut it all off our luggage. At this point I decided to nip outside for a cigarette to calm the nerves and bumped into Tony, or “The Young Orlando Bloom” as Lee had christened him, last seem at Nkhata Bay, Malawi. After a bit more tooing and froing, we checked in and then made for the just opened restaurant for a quick bite to eat and to catch up with Tony and his mate. We made our way through the similarly ineffective security and into the bar, our departure time came and went, and we were finally called to board. This time we didn’t even get the dodgy meat roll, landed two hours late and made our weary way to the Beira Guesthouse – no slumming it at Hotel Infante this time, we were lording it with satellite TV in the room, air conditioning and a jacuzzi – which didn’t work, natch. Beer was procured.

A long lie in was followed by a mid-afternoon trip back to the airport, seats taken at the bar and the commencement of waiting for the plane which would be delivering my Mum for her two week holiday with us. As we watched the skies in anticipation it started to grow darker, rain began to fall, quite heavy rain, oh, and lightening. An hour or so after it was supposed to, the plane finally touched down and Mum emerged. Thankfully, her bags had made it too and we had an emotional reunion and then piled in the cab back to the guesthouse. Here we procured a nice cup of tea and left Mum to freshen up.

Our walk into town coincided quite magnificently with the start of another violent rain storm. We made it to the pizzeria and found it closed and then, in sheer desperation, made for Hotel Infante for chicken and chips, a bottle of wine and apologies for the rubbishness of Beira. The evening wasn’t a complete disaster, however, as, after procuring another bottle of wine, we returned to our lodgings in time to watch Liverpool produce a record breaking 8-0 Champions League win.

The following morning, as Lee made for the Post Office to dispatch her two enormous statues, Mum and I took a quick stroll round town and caught up a little before returning to the guesthouse and getting ready to go. Lee turned up eventually, still with her statues and in a foul mood caused by astounding levels of incompetence at the post office. We calmed her down and loaded the bags into the waiting taxi. We made for Shoprite to buy some supplies and then Lee’s phone rang to tell us that our taxi was waiting at the guesthouse and wondering where we were. We confronted the driver of the car we’d arrived in, Lee went ballistic and we demanded to be taken back to the guesthouse – it appeared this guy had simply stumbled across us at the right time and decided to pretend to be our arranged driver on the spur of the moment.

Soon we were on our way, heading for Gorongosa National Park, a small park in the process of being re-populated after the years of war decimated the animal population. The taxi driver did the classic petrol station demand for money, we paid some up front and told him we’d pay the rest upon our return to Beira. An hour later we had a high speed blowout and limped back to the nearest town to get the tyre repaired – what’s that? the spare? flat of course. We sipped cold beers, Mum had Fanta, and waited to get going, anxious that we get to the park before the gates closed at 6pm. The driver approached me and explained he had no money to pay for the tyre repair, somewhere behind me Lee exploded, I refused to hand over any more cash, spoke to the guy’s boss on the phone, argued some more and then had to accept the ridiculousness of the situation – the guy really had no money, who knows what he’d have done if it had happened on his way home – I had to stump up or we weren’t going anywhere.

The rest of the journey proceeded in stony silence. We made the gate with a few minutes to spare and were soon checked into a pair of lovely rondavel bungalows. We got booked up for a 5am game drive and then tucked into a delicious dinner, followed by the presentation of a cake to celebrate Mum and Lee’s birthdays – a huge garish fluffy thing, not particularly tasty but its the thought that counts.

Bleary eyed, we assembled at 5.00 and met Tony, our Zimbabwean game guide, who took us on a three hour drive around about half of the park. Although not populated with the numbers or variety of our other safaris, we still saw several types of antelope, many warthogs and plenty of birds. The highlight, undoubtedly, though was leaving the vehicle to creep through the undergrowth to a viewing spot above a hippo pool and watching these huge, dangerous creatures wallow lazily below us.

We were back in time for a large breakfast and then retired for a snooze, meeting up again mid-afternoon to walk to the local village with a guide. This involved wading across a wide river and then meeting the local elder to say a quick hello. Then it was mainly meeting and talking to all the kids, taking photos and finding out about how the park is helping to provide education and health care to the community. We waded back, tucked into another large dinner and hit the sack exhausted.

It was up again for another 5am game drive with Tony, this time around the other side of the park, again similar sightings of antelope and warthogs, but also a large crocodile and, best of all, a group of six or seven elephants. The elephants in this area are still traumatised  from the war and do not hang around if there’s humans about. When they spotted us they stuck out ears and trunks and mock charged before loping off into the deep bush. As we drove back, the heavens opened once more and we were given a proper soaking, we thanked Mum for bringing the British weather with her.

We breakfasted and checked out and our taxi arrived and, soon enough, we were back at Beira Guesthouse, wondering why it was the driver had felt the need to take so many corners at high speed and on the wrong side of the road. We had a siesta and then made our way into welcoming Beira once more. This time the pizzeria was full, but they weren’t serving any food. We wandered off into town and stumbled across a decent cafe where we ordered, what else, pizza.

The following morning Lee finally managed to get her parcels sent and then we made our way back to the airport once more, feeling like we were finally escaping from some sort of Groundhog  Day scenario, although we had to go through another repetition of airport tax robbery and security laxness first. The obligatory delay incurred, we boarded a small plane and were at Vilanculos in an hour. Here we were subjected to further exploitation as there was only one taxi operating and could therefore charge what he liked, and did. Feeling suitably soiled, we rocked up to the Zombie Cucumber backpackers, were refused a bed as they were full and had to make do with the place next door which was just not quite as nice. We settled into a little thatched hut with a double bed and two bunks separated by a partition and then set off to book a boat trip and find something to eat. We ended up at a nice little restaurant and ordered various fish dishes just in time for another storm to whip up and force us to take shelter. Mum apologised once more for the weather.

Bright and early we made our way for our planned boat trip with a local dive operator – alas, they’d had some cancellations and so couldn’t run the trip that day, they’d arranged for us to do another trip with a different company which we’d had booked for the following day, hopefully they’d take us then instead. It was here that we bumped into Tony/Orlando again, together with a huge dutchman called Ferry. They agreed to join us on the dhow trip and we were soon on our way to Magaruque, the closest of the Bazaruto islands. We found a lovely tranquil spot of beach and spent the day lazing under the sun. There was time for some food and a spot of snorkelling and then it was back to the mainland, this time under sail as the wind had picked up sufficiently. Indeed, by the time we reached shore the sea had become quite rough and disembarking from the boat became quite perilous, Mum got caught out by a large wave and fell head first off the prow in comedic fashion. The evening consisted of another delicious fish dinner back at the lodge and then a wander over to the Zombie Cucumber for a couple of drinks with Ferry and Tony.

The five of us were together again the following morning as the dive company told us the trip was back on – this time we were going to two of the more distant islands, Bangue and Bazaruto itself. The journey was by inflatable speedboat and was a lot quicker and even more bumpy than in the dhow, but after about forty minutes we were strolling pristine virgin white powdery sand and posing for photos in front of the turquoise sea, pure paradise. The divers had their briefing and then we were taken out to two mile reef where Tony was to start his PADI course and Lee, Ferry and I were to snorkel. The reef was beautiful, absolutely full of fish of all shapes and colours and the water shallow enough to see everything from the surface with a snorkel. After an hour or so, with everyone back in the boat, we headed to Bazaruto itself and Lee, Mum and I found a shady spot to enjoy the sunshine and the packed lunch we’d brought. There was just time to climb the enormous sand dunes and enjoy the view before it was time to be picked up and return to shore. We had a refreshing beverage and made plans to meet up again with Ferry and Tony for dinner. A convivial meal was partaken and we decided to stick together the following day too as we were all heading south to Tofo.

And so it was that we all strolled into town next morning and procured a chapa to Maxixe, Mum’s first experience of African public transport. After about three hours we arrived and took the opportunity for a quick cold drink, bumping into a Swedish couple from the lodge who must have been having the worst time of their lives judging by how much they kept complaining about everything. Then we wandered down to the river bank to board the ferry to Inhambane. The boatmen attempted to relieve us of a significant amount of cash but were outflanked when we revealed that the waiter had told us how much the tickets were. They countered by charging us for our bags and we accepted, but not entirely meekly. The ferry was a small covered dhow, the water equivalent to a chapa and just as overloaded but we made it to the other side without sinking.

We had a little time so we made for a local guesthouse, Pensao Pachica, ordered some excellent food and got talking to the owner, Dennis, who arranged a chapa to take us to Tofo and booked us a couple of rooms for a couple of nights time. We looked at a couple of places, including Fatima’s Nest where we bumped into another Nkarta Bay veteran, Wolfgang, but settled on Bamboozy where Lee had phoned ahead to book us a couple of en suite rooms.

Except when we arrived the owner was obviously in an advanced state of stonery and had absolutely no idea about our booking. He settled us in the bar and went off to investigate, eventually returning with the news that we would have to share a chalet with Mum but that we could have it for free and move in the morning. This would have to do and so we took it in turns to freshen up and reconvened at the bar for a couple of beers. Everyone drifted off to bed and only Lee and I were left when the door swung open and Craig and Ellie, also last seen at Nkarta Bay, strolled in. We spent some time catching up and then Ellie made her excuses, we ordered a final beer, the bar closed and we ended up on the terrace staring at some of the best stars we’ve seen all trip talking absolute rubbish with Craig.

In the morning Mum and I took a stroll into town along the beach, had a drink and a chat at a cafe and then wandered around the market, making wildly untruthful promises about all the things we’d buy the following day. I left Mum on the beach while I went off to go diving not particularly successfully. I bought an waterproof camera and spent all my time underwater trying to maneuver about to get good shots of fish, this used up a lot of energy and air and I was forced to surface after an embarrassingly brief 25 minutes under. Meanwhile, Lee was on an ocean safari and having an absolutely amazing time snorkeling with a dozen huge whale sharks – jealous? just a bit.

We all met back in the bar and one beer turned into several. Lee was gloating about her whale sharks and Ferry couldn’t resist taking the piss at my pathetic diving excursion. Craig and Ellie joined us and we all tucked into an all you can eat pizza buffet while enjoying the majestic genius of Top Secret on TV.

Next day the three of us took a stroll back to the market and Mum bought a couple of wooden bowls and we sussed out the bus times. We dropped in at Fatima’s nest and were joined by Craig, Ellie and Wofgang for lunch, then headed back to get a last few hours on the beach, Ferry and I throwing ourselves around at the frisbee in the surf in comedy fashion. Then it was time to go and we were able to blag a lift into town to catch the bus. It was only then that we were informed of the direct bus leaving each morning to Maputo – one more thing that Dennis at Pensao Pachica had omitted to tell us/lied about – but it was too late to arrange accommodation and so we jumped on the bus to Inhambane. There we marched to the hotel in not altogether the right direction, finally arriving, hot and bothered and eager to relax. The price of the rooms we’d booked was so high that I was expecting something special with en suite and TV but we were shown a pair of pretty shabby rooms with a communal bathroom. Lee and I opted for the dorm to save some cash and made for the bar where we met an interesting Scot by the name of Sam engaged in land mine clearance. After a few beers and some half decent food it was time for bed in readiness for the 4.15 pick up to Maputo arranged by Dennis.

At 4.45 we cursed Dennis once more and started to trudge to the bus station. After some strange shenanigans about which bus to board and the fare, we ensconced ourselves on the bus and set off for the capital. The journey was uneventful but marred by the driver’s insistence on playing his music and ear bursting volume. By lunch time we were in downtown Maputo, picked up by Fatima’s and all set up with Mum in a room and Lee and I in the tent on a concrete flat roof. We quickly made arrangements for a guided tour of the highlights for the following day and then set off for a stroll down the fantastically named avenues commemorating heroes dear to the revolutionaries of 1975 – Mao Tse Tung, Ho Chi Minh, Vladimir Lenin, Kim Jong Il.

We stopped in at the very swanky Hotel Polana for a nice cup of tea – Mum – and large gin and tonic – Lee and I – and sat eavesdropping on a production meeting at the next table being held by the crew of a big Hollywood film being shot in the city. Lee sat gazing wistfully at the hunky star of the picture practicing his kick boxing by the pool. We carried on our walk down the hill to the marina area and found a local restaurant called Scorpion recommended to us by Sam the land mine man. Our starters came with chips and filled us up before the main course. Mum and I had disastrously ordered a joint local speciality which we thought was a variety of seafood in breadcrumbs but turned out to be seafood in bread sauce. We decided to bail and jumped in a cab to Mondo’s, the local sports bar and carried on getting tipsy and chatting until late.

Our tour kicked off early and started with a huge breakfast at a nice cafe. Sufficiently satiated, we piled back into our swanky mini van and ordered the guide to get on with it. He started by taking us to the Museum of Modern Art which wasn’t yet open and it went downhill from there as it became clear that, not only could he not speak English, but hadn’t done a guided tour before. We started to tell him where to take us and he had to keep phoning his boss to talk to us and then translate. Eventually, we found a little artists collective and stopped for a look, then headed down to the old fort and took in an excellent exhibition of award winning press photographs – which Lee felt compelled to photograph to my absolute shame. From there we spent an hour or two shopping in the craft market and then took in Eiffel’s beautiful old railway station. There was still time for a classic Natural History Museum, consisting entirely of badly preserved taxidermy of every African animal you could wish for, and then it was back to the Museum of Modern Art, finally open, for an excellent exhibition of Mozambican painting and sculpture.

We piled back into the van and headed north up the coast to Costa Do Sol, past the beach swarming with locals, music pumping, food on the brai, surfing, sailing and on to Restaurante Costa Do Sol, a Maputo institution, where we indulged once more in amazing seafood and a couple of bottles of Vinho Verde. Mum told us she’d had an amazing time and we told her how much we’d enjoyed her coming out to see us. She said it had really opened her eyes to Africa and she’d definitely be back, exactly what we’d hoped.

Then, inevitably, the sky began to darken and, rain began to lash down and it was time to head for the airport. Mum insisted we didn’t wait even though check in hadn’t opened, we said our goodbyes and jumped back in the van to town. We were dropped back at Mundo’s, had an argument which had been brewing for days and then watched the Scots lose to Italy and go out of Euro 2008.

The next day was Sunday which, as we know, means that everything is shut in Mozambique. We managed to find a hairdressers and both had a haircut and then walked the streets trying to find something else to do. Eventually, we stumbled across a restaurant called Zambezia where we could get a beer and a bite to eat. While we waited, three local guys sat in the corner playing James Blunt on an acoustic guitar. After a while one of them came over and asked if he could draw Lee, he didn’t want any money but was an art student wanting to practice. And he did need to practice. Probably still does – the picture wasn’t too bad, it just seemed to portray Lee as a slightly chubby twelve year old – quite odd.

Some more time passed and the guitar started to be passed around a large, loud group sitting outside the front of the bar. They asked us to join them and we joined in the singing where we could. I was passed the guitar and played my standard Pixies song, they loved it so much/they were so drunk they kept asking me to play more and I was forced to dredge up Wild Thing and other three chord thrashers to keep them happy.

The bar shut ridiculously early and we staggered back to the backpackers, with the guitar’s owner in tow, to get beer there. As soon as we walked through the door some Germans collared him and made enquiries about obtaining essential supplies. He said he could oblige and, somehow, I ended up accompanying him down some back streets to facilitate. On our return, the security guard wouldn’t let our friend back in so we grabbed Lee and the Germans and made our way up the road where a pizza place was still open. We ordered pizza, burned our mouths eating it too quickly and then bade goodnight to our new friend to stagger home to our rooftop tent.

Our final day in Maputo was spent with me frantically beating a keyboard for ten hours solid in an internet cafe. Lee took a wander, stumbled across some people shooting a pop video in a park and then bumped into Wolfgang. We all met back at Fatima’s and hooked up with some Spanish people to go to the fish market for dinner. We had a fantastic meal of yet more top quality seafood and then headed back to the lodge for a nightcap.

Next morning we were up early as Lee spent a frustrating couple of hours trying to change some money in readiness for leaving the country. Eventually, around eleven, we boarded a chapa, had the usual argument over the fare and, a few hours later, we were over the border and standing in the Kingdom of Swaziland.

The Blood of Cheese Hearse duly did the trick and we were deposited anon at the border town of Chipata. Here we were, naturally, but quite politely and with some skill, ripped off on a currency exchange and then bundled into a Toyota Corolla – which then cruised the streets until it was filled with seven people, plus baggage, and could depart for the border crossing itself.

After a nervous few kilometres swerving cyclists, potholes and oncoming juggernauts to the soundtrack of the protesting suspension, we reached the barrier and had our final experience of those lovely Zambian immigration officials. Passports stamped with bored indifference, we stumbled, fully laden through no man’s land and into Malawi, the self-styled Warm Heart Of Africa TM.

The first demostration  of this warmth was the lack of a visa fee – bonus – but then it was back to business as usual as we haggled with taxi drivers wanting an exhorbitant amount of money to take us the few kilometres to the nearest town, Mchinji, where we could catch a bus to Lilongwe. Ludicrous price duly negotiated, we loaded the bags in the boot and climbed into the ubiquitous Toyota Corolla, whereupon we were informed that the journey would not be commencing until the necessary four additional passengers had arrived and been similarly fleeced.

It was the middle of an overbearingly hot day involving an early start, crowded bus stations, noisy people wanting our money, what can I say? Words were exchanged with the taxi drivers, some of them quite short, ancient words introduced by the Saxon hordes when they reached our shores over a thousand years ago. Lee declared her intention to hitchhike and stomped to the side of the road with her shoulders set in a purposeful attitude.

I confess, after our previous hitching experiences, I wasn’t optimistic, particularly given the singular lack of traffic in the vicinity – not one car had passed us since we’d been dropped on the Zambian side some half an hour before. I felt a humiliating climbdown and a long wait for the Toyota to overfill were the only likely outcomes.

And then, moments later, like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn, a shining white pickup truck appeared, towing a large, slightly surreal boat. It was waved through the barrier and pulled up next to Lee at the roadside. There were some agonising moments of verbal to and fro and then the overwhelming relief as a thumbs up was signalled. I jumped out of the car and wrenched open the boot, summoning super-human strength from somewhere and managing to carry all of our bags towards the vehicle at once.

By now the taxi drivers had cottoned on to the latest developments and began shouting and waving at me as I staggered closer to our salvation. With a couple of lunges, the large packs were quickly lodged in the rear and I jumped up into the cab alongside Lee and expressed my relief and thanks to the driver, a rotund Zimbabwean who introduced himself as Peter. A couple of taxi drivers crowded around the drivers side window and started hurling abuse, demanding that Peter should not give us a lift and even threatening to call the police to arrest him for the heinous crime of denying them the opportunity to fleece a tourist, or somesuch.

Peter calmly waved away the protests, called their bluff on the police threats and we were on our way to Lilongwe. Peter proved to be excellent company, regaling us with stories of his days as an overland truck driver, driving hordes of demanding backpackers from London to Cape Town with plenty of high jinks along the way. Now he was based back in Zim and was running a fleet of cargo trucks throughout Southern Africa – the jaunt with the boat to Malawi a pleasant diversion to get him out of the office for a few days.

The time passed easily and we reached Lilongwe just after dark, pulling into the prestigious, but comically named, Crossroads hotel complex where Peter was staying. We felt it the least we could do to furnish our new friend with several beers – locally brewed Carlsberg no less – and a rather decent Chinese meal to express our gratitude. Needless to say, it would have been rude not to join him, and so it was getting on for ten o’clock when our taxi dropped us at our backpackers, the Mabuya Lodge.

Our only desire, to collapse into bed in a double room with ensuite, was immediately dashed as the owners, Janey and Tim, a jolly English couple, informed us they were fully booked. Relief was attained though when the pitching of our trusty tent was given the go ahead. Tim then asked the only remaining salient question, did we want a beer before or after completion of the aforementioned erection. With an unexpected show of chivalrousness, which leapt out of me from a deep dark place where I like to keep it hidden, I told Lee to grab herself a cold one and I would do the necessary on my tod. She concurred without missing a beat, the rest of the bar stared at me with a mix of admiration and disbelief, and ten minutes later the tent was up and I was ensconsed at the bar trying to see if I could taste the difference between a Carlsberg Green and a Carlsberg Brown. I couldn’t. Even after several tries.

The unbearable morning heat inside the tent cut through the hangover like broken glass and made a lie in an impossibility, I also seemed to have come down with some sort of flu bug. We broke fast with strong coffee and banana milkshakes and then made our way into town. Alas, Lilongwe, capital city though it may be, had little to offer on the architectural, cultural or historical front and so I soon repaired to an internet cafe to blog while Lee sorted our bus tickets out for the next day (despite the fact we had clearly agreed that we would leave on the Sunday, thereby enabling me to spend a pleasant Saturday afternoon watching England beat Estonia at football and then make it a double by somehow emerging victorious against Australia in the rugby World Cup Semi-final – not that it mattered of course). It was also decided that Lee would visit the bank and stock up on enough cash too keep us going for the expected month or so until we would be in a town where we could next withdraw it.

It was dark when the blog was complete and we caught a taxi back to the camp. We had a brief row about the bus ticket date of departure important national sporting occasion fiasco and then Lee produced a plastic bag full of Malawian Kwache. She’d been unable to change any into dollars and so we were left with a wad about the size of two house bricks to somehow transport covertly and without arising the interest of hostile parties. It had been a long and trying day after a late boozy night after a long trying day and so we opted for an early night.

We broke camp and took our taxi to catch the bus at the mercifully civilised time of 11.00. It was the usual story with an abundance of people, livestock, produce and interesting aromas couples with a shortage of legroom, comfort, punctuality, functioning suspension – but I was at least able to catch the second half of the footie on the World Service, at least as long as I stuck the ariel out of the window and re-tuned every two minutes or so.

Six or seven, who knows, maybe it was eight hours later, we arrived in Mzuzu and were soon being overcharged for a taxi in traditional fashion. Once more there were no available rooms at Mzoozoozoo (can you see what they did there?) and so we pitched our tent “anywhere you like, just watch out for the dog turds” and then continued our study of the local beverage – Lee deciding Green was the superior brew while I felt inclined to disagree and professed my belief in the power of Brown, Carlsberg not Gordon. My head full of mucus and prone to long bouts of sneezing uncontrollably, I retired early.

In the morning we met a bald Italian by the name of Alex who struck up a conversation with us about our travel plans. I ran him through my proposed route across the lake by ferry to the Mozambiquan border and onwards by bus to Beira where we were to meet my mum on November 6th. Alex pooh poohed this as the babblings of a madman, declaring that it would be hell trying to traverse that part of northern Mozambique by public transport and coming to our aid with the offer of a lift – by an amazing coincidence his wife and kids lived in Beira and he would be driving there two weeks hence. All we had to do was return to Lilongwe in time to get our Mozambique visa in advance, thereby minimising potential border corruption style hassles, and he would pick us up and drop us in Beira twelve hours later. We exchanged phone numbers and, having downed three espressos in very quick succession, he was off.

This left our time in Malawi shortened by a week and meant that we had to have a very vocal and public disagreement about our next destination – Lee wanting to stick with the plan to make for Livingstonia, a remote mountain town with less than integrated public transport links, I wanted to bin that idea and head straight for the lake as quickly as possible and get stuck into the legendary party scene.

Needless to say, Lee won, by the simple tactic of declaring her intention to go to Livingstonia with or without me. I was forced to declare foul play and back down, winning only a concession to save time by travelling by taxi, and stating my full intention to be in a huff for the entire duration as a protest at such a low blow and clear contravention of a promise made to her own mother that mine would always be the final word in such circumstances.

We telephoned our taxi driver of the previous evening and broke camp in bad temper. The taxi arrived and I left it to Lee to negotiate the price. Agreement was reached and the bags were loaded, we pulled out of the gates and another man got in the car. It transpired the taxi was his and it would be him driving us to Livingstonia. We had travelled about a hundred metres when he started to renegotiate the fare, forcing me to suppress a smile. Lee maintained her morning’s tactic of sticking to her guns and calling bluff and told him to accept the price or turn around and take us back, he backed down.

Minutes later, we pulled into the petrol station (every African taxi journey includes a visit to the first available petrol station and the request of a proportion of the fare in advance to cover fuel, it just wouldn’t be cricket any other way) and the driver tried his luck once more, using everything from rising fuel prices to the poor quality of the road and the short notice as justification for almost doubling the price. Lee gave him the hairdrier treatment and we were deposited straight back to Mzoozoozoo and square one.

The drippy looking American girl who appeared to be running the place launched into a well rehearsed diatribe about African taxi drivers, Lee ordered a beer and I settled down on the porch to continue reading Richard E Grant’s film diaries, which I had brazenly pilfered from their book exchange. One of their regular taxi drivers was telephoned, a price agreed and, ten minutes later, duly arrived. The bags were in the boot and a cursory confirmation sought of the agreed tariff, the man smiled bashfully and raised the fare by fifty percent. The bags were swiftly removed and we stood back as the American girl proved that appearances can be deceptive and verbally lashed the poor sod with an admirable vehemence that, despite its ferocity, seemed merely to bounce off him, the effect mortally weakened by the fact that he simply couldn’t care less whether he ever got a booking from them again, which, she promised, he wouldn’t.

More beer was procured, one Green one Brown, I returned to my spot on the porch and another taxi was summoned, this time with a protracted telephone warning that any attempt to renegotiate upon arrival or during the subsequent journey would be likely to result in testicular removal and insertion into a destination free of solar radiation.

This time we were in luck – the driver, Owen, was lovely and, better still, had a really nice sporty looking Toyota. He confirmed the price had not risen, loaded the bags and we were off – to the petrol station. We had a further short stop so that Lee could stock up on essentials for the journey – 3 Green, 3 Brown and two huge bags of crisps – I wondered if she was trying to get me drunk and buried my head further into the paranoid rantings of Withnail in between mammoth sneezes.

Two hours of bendy mountain roads, flu, alcohol, crisps and the paranoid rantings of Withnail meant that, upon arrival, I was in an even worse mood than before -so much so that I was able to completely block out the stunning beauty of our destination.

The Mushroom Farm is a wonderful rustic encampment on the side of the mountain with panoramic views for miles over the flat plains stretching below to the shores of Lake Malawi, a shimmering turquoise expanse which, in turn, merges imperceptably at the horizon with the azure of the cloudless sky. I didn’t copy that off the promotional blurb, I actually made that up myself. Dotted through the woods were a lovely thatched bar area, a couple of lounging areas, one with space for a fire, a collection of chalets and a raised, covered dais covering the composting toilet – OK, all slightly on the hippy, tree hugging side, but in a nice way.

We checked in and pitched camp on an earthen shelf with aforementioned stunning view and I carried on sulking. Night fell, we gathered for dinner – vegetarian naturellement – with the owner, Mick, a dour Australian, his chirpy Irish girlfriend Liz, a strange English guy who refused to shake my hand “because you’re ill” and another English bloke who looked like a bearded ginger Action Man. I refused to utter a word, barely ate a thing and retired to bed, confirming Mick’s query – “You a bit crook mate? with a mumbled affirmative”. In my absence, Lee filled them all in on my unreasonable and childish behaviour.

As was becoming painfully clear, camping in Africa means early mornings as the stifling heat makes staying inside the tent unbearable after about 7 am. Still not on speaking terms, Lee set off to hike to Livingstonia via some waterfalls and I repaired to one of the lounge areas to read, doze and sniffle rather pathetically. Upon her return we finally made up, I even conceded that it had been a good plan to come as it really was so spectacularly beautiful and she told me what a ridiculously hard hike it had been up to the town in such hot conditions but that the waterfalls had been beautiful and the people very friendly and she had to go back tomorrow with money and buy some lovely big ornately carved wooden chairs to send home – talk about kicking a man when he’s down. I sighed, ordered some beer and asked the barman to light the fire in the seating area.

Just at that moment a pair of Finns joined us and began recounting a horror story of a three day hike through Nyika National Park with a guide who’d turned the whole thing into a high speed forced march through unbearable conditions - all without porters to carry their heavy packs and camping gear. This was a trip we’d planned to do ourselves but abandoned due to the time constraints – what a relief, our mood was immediately lifted and the evening progressed swimmingly. Even that night’s generic vegetarian brown casserole was less than entirely bland and the Finns proved to be good company, though lacking the je ne sais quoi that would, for instance, allow me to remember their names.

Owen arrived at 6.30 next morning and we were soon packed and ready to depart. On his advice we declined to drive to Livingstonia to purchase the large, heavy, ornately carved wooden chairs as it was a well known fact that they were enormously over-priced. Instead, he took us to Chitmebe Beach where there was a row of stalls selling hundreds of items from tiny carved bowls and boxes to, ahem, large, heavy, ornately carved wooden chairs. Lee promised me faithfully she’d buy two for no more than a certain amount and in no more than a certain amount of time and left me sweating and reading in the back of the car.

Soon, the heat became impossible to endure and I sought shelter in shade. Alas, the only shade in the vicinity was that provided by the craft stalls. Still, I got away very lightly, having only to purchase a wrist band of dubious quality. Lee was in the throes of haggling, and, after only three times longer than the fifteen minutes agreed upon, had tied up the deal for only twice as many of the chairs, plus the bonus of a free set of salad, y’know, implements.

Seeing it was pointless to do more than harumph mildly, I loaded the car and Owen set about driving us back to Mzuzu suicidally quickly. Just outside town he rendezvoused with another driver, had us transplanted into the other car with an agreed price and the promise to take us to Nkhata Bay by way of the post office and was off in a cloud of dust. The taxi dropped me at a fancy hotel where I sipped icy Coca Cola and carried on with my book while Lee tried to find someone willing to ship her weighty purchases homeward without charging more than they actually cost.

An hour later, task completed at the third port of call (DHL wanted over $1000!), she returned and we drove to the lake, one of my most looked forward to destinations of the whole trip. We headed to Mayoka Village, the backpackers widely held to be the best on the lake, a sprawling collection of thatched wooden chalets spread out on a hillside overlooking the lake. Upon arrival, were made to feel immediately at home with a Green and a Brown and a couple of sandwiches in their spacious bar. Once refreshed, we were led to a shady ledge on the hillside within a stone’s throw of the water, where we could pitch our tent. We had a couple of hours of hammock before tucking into the delicious Free Tuesday Buffet and then calling it a night almost indecently early, another worrying side effect of camping to go with the unreasonably early mornings.

Wednesday duly arrived and we had a wander down into town after breakfast, including a quick visit to the Soweto Leisure Centre, a local bar full of character and characters, for a fizzy pop and then popped into an internet cafe to check email. Here we met Stuart, another Mayoka resident who mentioned that a group were coming down that afternoon to go to the Bongo Beat Bar (formerly the Golden Dawg) to watch the Russia v England game on the big screens. I confirmed I would be happy to join them.

Cometh the appointed hour, cometh the men, Stuart, an English Everton supporter from somewhere near Coventry, Craig, a Scot living in Scarborough with the voice of Mick McCarthy and Wolfgang, a German, oh and Lee, from Norn Iron, living in England – three to two in support of the Russians then. Fortunately, as everywhere else we’ve been, the locals were all England fans. Unfortunately, England were unable to muster anything more than their usual drivel and two of us returned to Mayoka disappointed at the mortal blow which had been dealt to our hopes of qualification for the European Championships.

Back at the bar, Lee soon made her excuses and took herself off to bed and I sat down with Craig and eyed a bottle of absinthe someone had brought with envious eyes. Soon, I was introduced to Gary, the owner, and he took me out into a secluded spot and introduced me to a friend of his who’d brought him some essential supplies. Gary seemed to be quite hyper and wasn’t making a great deal of sense and so we returned to the bar and sat back down with Craig, Wolfgang and John, another English guy of advanced years and an old friend of Gary’s. Wolfgang demanded some decent music, blues if possible, and I nipped to the tent to grab my ipod and obliged.

Gary, it soon transpired, was off on one and he began to order whisky shots for everyone in the bar. Time wore on and the numbers depleted until just our table and a group of locals were left. More whisky shots were dispatched and the subject somehow turned to child abuse, with Gary saying something along the lines of the majority of abusers having suffered abuse themselves. Craig instantly bristled and could be heard shouting in full McCarthy tones “He’s saying it’s alright to bum kids!”

All hell broke loose, Craig repeated his accusation interspersed with generous and colourful helpings of critical analysis of Gary’s person, Gary refused to clarify his position, seeming to spout huge long rambling sentences without actually saying anything comprehensible, John sort of whimpered his belief that Gary really didn’t mean that and Wolfgang just kind off sat with a thousand yard stare, obviously desperately uncomfortable but seemingly unable to move, perhaps the blues mojo had got him transfixed.

Finally, as it seemed Craig was about to embark on a course of violent retribution and it was clear that Gary was unwilling to say the simple words necessary to avoid it, I had to step in. I told them both to shut up, I told Craig I didn’t believe Gary had meant what he thought he’d meant, explained in words of one syllable to Gary exactly what Craig thought he’d meant and that all he had to do was answer a simple yes or no question and, finally, put Craig’s accusation to him in the form of a yes or no question. Gary’s reply was an unclear stream of consciousness babbling that reminded me of Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now when he’s clearly off his head, greeting Martin Sheen in the Cambodian jungle. This was a little spooky as Gary does physically resemble Dennis Hopper, but more his later Blue Velvet or Speed incarnation. Craig’s response was to start shouting obscenities. I decided I’d had enough and retreated to the bar.

Here I met and fell into conversation with hot local talent Rudy K, who proceeded to play me the cd he’d just made – two tracks of top quality Malawian reggae, the lead song entitled “Don’t Propose Your Friend Wife”, an admirable sentiment. Rudy and I fell into musical chatter, naming songs we both liked which I would find on the ipod and play, and forcing down the whisky shots that were still appearing with alarming regularity.

Eventually I decided that I needed to play some authentic South London music to represent what was happening back on the streets I’d left behind. For some reason this took the form of a Nicky Blackmarket and Micky Finn classic jungle compilation. I cranked the volume up to full blast, spouted a load of meaningless rubbish about “the sound of street level” or somesuch and then set about trying to teach him my patented knee driven jungle dance. It can only be a sign of how drunk he was that he didn’t simply laugh in my face.

By the early hours of the morning there was only Gary and I and the bottle of scotch left. Not the first one obviously, that had been polished off hours earlier. Gary was barely comprehensible or vertical, but I probably wasn’t either. We rambled on about who knows what for an age until it became clear to me that Gary was in full Uncle Monty mode and trying to seduce me with all his talk of my beautiful spirit and wonderful personality. I decided to confront him head on and launched into a forceful rebuttal of his advances, telling him in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t going to happen and spouting a highly emotionally charged sermon detailing the purity of my love for Lee. I wish I could remember how it went because it seemed to have the desired effect of fobbing him off in a way that all he could do was admit that our love was so noble and beautiful that any attempt by him to burgle me would be to stamp on the delicate flower of love’s young dream – could come in handy for a wedding speech I’m thinking. I decided to go to bed.

The following day was spent lolling about with the mother, father and grandparents of all hangovers. Lee managed to harangue me enough to get me to swim to a platform moored a hundred metres or so out in the lake. What was I thinking? What was she thinking? After a minute or two of lying on it the bobbing motion had made me feel ill but I was still too weak to swim back. I got into the water and had to float hanging onto the side until I thought I had enough energy left to make it back. By the time I reached dry land I was convinced I was going to die.

I staggered to the bar – only because it was the nearest place I could lie down. I was amazed to find Gary there. I was even more amazed to find that Gary was still drinking – it was two in the afternoon and he clearly hadn’t slept. He was perched on a bar stool, still swigging his whisky shots, babbling incoherently and periodically tipping over and landing heavily on the concrete floor.

Finally, enough was enough and his wife was summoned to retrieve the situation. She and one of the staff carried him down the steps to the lake where they dunked him in the water baptism style – perhaps they were trying to exorcise some demon – he surfaced, stood, staggered, fell, thrashed about a bit and was then dragged back onto dry land and carried up the hill to bed. For a while no one could quite look each other in the eye. Then he became the number one topic of conversation with me as star witness to the night before, I just wanted peace and quiet. It was an early night.

Naturally, considering the state I’d been in, Lee had organised a fishing trip on the lake for early the next morning with Stuart and his wife, Amanda. We set off at 7am with Captain Billy and his cousin Gift across the fairly turbulent waters for a couple of hours. Then we dropped anchor and threw some weighted hooks over the side and held onto the end of seventy metres of string as it slowly unrolled down into the murky depths. Captain Billy caught a fish almost immediately, then nothing. Periodically, we would feel a tugging and reel in the full seventy metres of line hand over hand – then it would appear that we’d either imagined it and the bait would be there, or that we hadn’t been quick enough and the bait would be gone.

After about ten minutes I was feeling ill and praying for it to end. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Stuart and Amanda were feeling equally nauseous. This made my bargaining position with Lee far stronger, and stronger still when Stuart actually threw up over the side. Captain Billy caught one more fish and then we demanded to be taken back. It only took twenty minutes or so longer for Captain Billy and Gift to pack the gear away and then we were motoring back to base at top speed, reaching there in only 45 minutes, great.

We were given the good news that the chalet we’d decided to move into was ready – the best in the place with a large stone bath. We’d had enough of waking up being sunbaked at 5.30 am and being fit to drop by 8pm. We didn’t even bother taking the tent down, just dragged our bags up the hill, ran the bath and lay there, me feeling like death, Lee, of course, having enjoyed it immensely.

The day’s activities were only just beginning, however. There was only just time to drag myself down for some lunch before I had to pull on my red number 8 shirt and get down to the town’s pitch for a Mayoka XI versus Locals football match – to be played in the searing heat at three in the afternoon. Reaching the pitch it became clear that the opponents were a group of boys no older than twelve and no taller than five feet. Naturally, they scored first after a horrific goalkeeping blunder from our side, but gradually we got into the game and, by the time I’d been subbed, completely exhausted after ten minutes, a couple of overlapping runs from full-back and a mazy but ultimately fruitless dribble like a Macmanaman of old, then brought back on for the final ten, we were 4-2 up at the final whistle. Honour just about intact, there was only one thing for it, another long soak in the bath.

We returned to the bar in time to catch an excellent show by a troupe of Tanzanian acrobats, finally obtain some essential supplies and to run into an extremely drunk Rudy K. After another delicious buffet meal, Lee retired early again and I ended up propping the future reggae megastar up and trying to get a coherent sentence out of him. It took half an hour before he remembered me from our previous meeting. He produced the copy of his cd he’d promised me, which I duly paid silly money for. Then I, perhaps erroneously, happened to mention I knew a guy in London who would know anyone who might be interested in new Malawian reggae talent and could forward the cd to them. Before I knew it, I seemed to have promised him I was going to break him in London and he was discussing plans for making a video to accompany the single.

I backtracked hastily, but then seemed to be possessed by the spirit of Ian Faith, legendary manager of Spinal Tap, as I began to dispense sage advice on how he should develop his musical career further and overcome his fundamental problem – raising cash for studio time without having to resort to the retail of proscribed herbs. I outlined a plan for him to get a couple of mates together, obtain an acoustic guitar and some bongos – “What’s your friend over there called with the dreads”, “Bongo Noah”, “Bongo Knower?” “Yeah”, “What about him on bongos then?”, “Oh yeah” – and put together a set of reggae standards, Bob Marley songs, together with his own material and play it to backpackers at the various lodges around the lake. We knew Gary would let him play at Mayoka as he’d financed the recording of the first two songs. If he got established at Mayoka, word would soon spread and he could start passing the hat round several nights a week and easily get the cash to record more of the songs he already had written, and he could sell cd’s at the same time – it seemed like genius.

I asked how much Gary had paid to finance the first recording session, approximately $30. “Right,” I said, “I’ll be in Lilongwe on Friday – book the session, I’ll pay for it, I’ll be there, maybe I’ll play a little bass or something.” I was clearly getting a little carried away. I continued banging on about the importance of getting on email, how he could send songs online, set up a MySpace account and so on, all the time slightly concerned he was too wasted to remember anything I was saying so I wrote alot of it down for him. Around one o’clock he could barely stand and I was just repeating the same things over and over again – time for bed.

After the first night in a bed since Lusaka, a delicious lie in, the first in ages, and a substantial breakfast, it was time to join the lads for a stroll down to the Bongo Beats Club for what promised to be a top day of sport. The day began perfectly with the Merseyside Derby which we won with style, panache and the aid of two penalties – the second given in stoppage time during which the big screen projector had packed in causing everyone to rush into the smaller bar area and crowd round a tiny television set. We only learned of the award of the penalty and its subsequent scoring when the screams of celebration began. Craig, another Liverpool fan, and I were ecstatic, our jubilation made even sweeter by the presence of Stuart, an actual Evertonian, and his clear distress at the blatant robbery that had been committed on his team in their back yard.

Stuart stomped hom distaught. Craig and I stayed for the beginning of an Arsenal game, but then Ellie, Craig’s wife, and Lee arrived and it was clear that another game wasn’t an option. Instead we walked back up to Mayoka for some quality time lying about doing nothing at all. Still, at least I could listen to the match on the World Service.

After an evening barbecue where it was entirely feasible we paid good money to eat some of the fish caught on the fishing trip we’d paid so much good money for, we headed back down to the Bongo and settled in for the Rugby World Cup Final. Fortunately there was no repeat of the group game whipping and we acquitted ourselves reasonably. Deep down I knew the derby result was the one that really mattered and so wasn’t more than a trifle disappointed.

We returned to Mayoka and downed consolation beers. Stuart and Lee were up for a big one but I couldn’t physically cope with another late night and retired to bed. I believe Lee staggered in at four.

Next morning we treated ourselves to another lie in and hearty breakfast, caught up with Gary who, sober, was a much pleasanter character and treated us to his life story which involved a chain of South African hairdressing salons, addiction to crack cocaine, selling his body for money in Johannesburg’s Little Nigeria and finding redemption at Mayoka and with his wife, even if he did sometimes fall off the wagon. It explained alot.

And then it was time to leave. I was really sorry to go, Mayoka Village is a really special place – beautiful surroundings, sympathetically developed, lovely accommodation and excellent facilities, the friendliest and most professional staff we’ve encountered in Africa, a wonderful vibe and a fantastic group of people – I would recommend it to anyone, and have done constantly since we left.

Oh, and thanks for a legendary night Gary, I’ll never forget you.

But off we had to go, catching a minibus with the regulation twenty people in it to Kande Beach, a couple of hours down the shore. We were deposited at the side of the road and set off to trudge the twenty minutes or so to the lodge. To make our journey more enjoyable, a local youth walked with us and pestered us continuously to come see his shop. Drenched in sweat, we finally reached the camp, checked in and pitched our tent. The location was lovely, a proper sandy beach with a nice thatched wooden bar overlooking it. We’d arrived in time to see our reason for coming as well -as we sipped a refreshing beverage, a procession of horses were ridden bareback into the sea for a swim.

In the morning, Lee was up early but I managed to drag my slumber out beyond eight o’clock, a tent record. Then I indulged in a very large full English breakfast and spent the rest of the morning in a hammock in preparation for the afternoon’s exertions. At two we were picked up by the dusky, and very well spoken, Alexa and driven to the stables where a collection of horses rescued from Zimbabwe had been nurtured back to full health and excellent condition. Here we met blonde, and equally well spoken, Caroline and Johnny, a scruffy brummie missing his front teeth but attached to the aforementioned dusky Alexa and, presumably, waking up each morning thanking his lucky stars.

We were introduced to the other riders, a motley crew of gap year types from an overland truck, and then to our horses. And then we were off. We walked a bit – what is the horse word for walk? – and then they insisted we trot, something I’m really not very good at you’ll remember, then Lee did some cantering while we continued trotting and, just as it seemed like ti was going to last forever, we’d reached the camp. We changed into swimming gear and the horses were relieved of their saddles and then we made our way towards the beach. There was a stone ramp which all the horses went down, as they must do every day, leading to the beach. All the horses except mine of course, who suddenly bolted and launched itself over a low wall and down onto the sand. Amazingly I stayed on. Then we had a quick dip in the sea and the ordeal, erm, the experience was over. Bar, beer, dinner, bed.

In the morning we shared Owen’s car with a German homeopath back to Lilongwe. On the journey Lee complained of feeling nauseous and then asked for the car to be stopped so that she could vomit copiously out of the doorway. Quick as a flash, our Teutonic complementary medic had whipped out a leather bound folder containing sinister looking vials of white granules and administered a dose. Half an hour later the car didn’t quite stop in time and Lee left an orange strip down the rear wing, the homeopath didn’t look suitably embarrassed.

We reached Lilongwe and checked into a decent hotel, as per previously stated travel protocols. Lee had regressed into some sort of childlike state which meant that she had to have ice to suck on – the hotel obviously didn’t have any – total darkness and complete silence – and no, you can’t watch the bloody television.  I made her as comfortable as possible and left to amuse myself at the internet cafe before enjoying a solitary dinner with my book and turning in.

In the morning, with Lee sufficiently recovered to move, we took a taxi to the Mozambique embassy and put in our visa applications. The form called for us to state the border crossing we would be using and so we called Alex to ask him. He gave us the name but then told us there was a change of plan – he was now leaving on Friday and would pick us up from the border town of Dedza. We then headed back to Mabuya camp, decided Lee was still not quite up to staying in the tent, plumped for a pleasant chalet with a proper double bed and spent several hours reclining with a book and the World Service. Then it was back to the embassy to collect the visas, back to the camp, an early night for Lee and I was forced to watch Liverpool losing to Besiktas in the Champions League – arse.

I woke up in a cold sweat the next morning with a feeling of dread that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Without really knowing why, I reached for my passport, found the Mozambique visa, checked the date and turned to Lee to inform her that our visas commenced one day late. She sighed and then, completely unexpectedly, offered to go and sort it out while I stayed in bed – bizarre.

Later, disaster averted, we caught a minibus to Dedza, found a not altogether unpleasant hotel, had a wander, found a little local place for lunch, had an almost acceptable meal and then I turned in – sleep patterns all over the place, I blame the tent/chalet mixture, body clock clearly didn’t have a clue how to cope – after disposing of the final essential supplies. Lee went for a stroll round town, there wasn’t much to see.

That evening, the phone rang, it was Rudy K calling to tell me he was in Lilongwe. Despite the fact that I had told him to call me before he left home to confirm everything was still going to plan, and that Alex had changed his plans and it was beyond my control, I felt terrible. The disappointment in his voice when I told him where I was and that I couldn’t make, and therefore pay for, the session cut through me like razor blades. The phone went dead and I couldn’t work out whether I’d done anything wrong, I didn’t sleep well.

We got up and called Alex to find out what time and where to meet. He said he’d had car trouble, was running late but would meet us at 11.00 at the police road block just outside of town at the junction for the border turn-off. We checked out, locked our bags in a storage cupboard and went back to the local place for an almost acceptable breakfast. At the prescribed hour we reported back to reception and found it deserted. In a state of mild panic, we searched the compound for the receptionist but found only some maintenance staff who told us that she’d gone home, taking the key with her of course. We demanded they send someone to get her, phone her, break the door down, anything as long as we got our bags immediately. After a very tense twenty minutes that seemed like a lifetime, the receptionist finally appeared, strolled casually in and opened the door for us to retrieve our bags.

We saddled up and started to yomp up the road through the drizzle, drawing stares from the locals which we were not in the mood to acknowledge with our customary waves and smiles. Eventually, I reached the junction, it was just after 11.00. Lee was some way behind so I waited, scanning the road, until she caught up, then we walked the final couple of hundred metres to the road block.

There was no sign of Alex. We dumped the bags and waited.

At 12.00 I tried to call him – we’d waited that long because he’d sounded so uptight on the previous call and we didn’t want to add to his stress – I got a recorded message stating that the number I was dialing was temporarily unavailable. What could that mean? One distinct possibility was that he’d already crossed the border. We waited another twenty minutes, constantly trying the number and then, with one or two choice epithets, we picked up our burdens and began the long, slow trudge to the border.

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.